Rumour
by linnie kinda spinnie
Summary: "Only the ignorant believe in coincidences," Set during TDK. A woman pretending to be someone she's not, and a clown who's just trying to show the people of Gotham who they really are. Intertwining fates. Joker/Oc, but not romantic.
1. Chapter 1

**...Um, yeah, first time doing one of these. I'm probably the greenest fanfic writer out there, I honestly don't know what I'm doing. Not to say that my story is no good, I think it's fine, and my sister really likes it but, hey, what do sisters know? Anyways this will be rated T for now, because my OC has a potty mouth and there are scenes of violence and minor character deaths ( mostly OC's) . So yeah, enjoy. I'm not going to beg you to review but I would appreciate... Wait, on second thought, yeah, review, or I may have to hold chappies hostage... Alright, enough jabber out of me...**

**Read on, mates.**

**Oh yeah, and I don't own TDK or the Joker... The Joker owns YOU! **

Chpt. 1 **The Bank**

_There's no certainty- only opportunity~ V for Vendetta_

Ever get the feeling you're being watched? I have it twenty-four-seven. Even before I arrived in this god forsaken city three days ago. It's pathetic, really, that a twenty year old woman should have to be constantly looking over her shoulder. Aren't your twenties supposed to be some of the best years of your life? So far, I'm not impressed.

Tuesday morning, at nine am, I get dressed in relatively plain clothing; a pair of black boot-cut jeans, a dark green long sleeved shirt with a squared neckline, a pair of old Steve Madden boots and a swipe of mascara. I'm doing as I'm instructed: Don't be noticed. I can't get caught. Besides, Gotham isn't really a place where you want to be noticed, and everyone wears dark clothes anyway. Saying that it's a dark city is a huge understatement. I put the thick yellow folder back under my mattress, grab my satchel then head out.

I don't get a cab. Even the cab driver's are corrupt and involved with the mob. So, I walk two blocks then hop a bus, which goes another ten blocks. My temporary apartment isn't in the Narrows; that's too dangerous. But, since I can't attract attention to myself, and I need to be hidden, the apartment I've been given is on 70th and Piccolo. 70th street isn't fancy but it isn't too bad. It sort of reminds me of Brooklyn, but grittier, darker. I get a seat in the back of the bus, and pull the collar of my jacket up. I keep my eyes on my lap; I don't look at anyone. Hopefully, they won't look at me.

By the time I get to the bank it's almost noon. Using the bus's black tinted window as a mirror, I pull out some black mascara and dab it underneath my bottom lip, on the right side; giving myself a beauty mark. The bus pulls up beside the bank and I get out, but not before putting on a pair of thick black sunglasses. I gulp as I look up at Gotham National Bank, feeling it loom over me. I shouldn't be here.

I pull out my bank card, or rather, Vianca's. Our resemblance is startling. Same honey blond hair, same curvy lips, same body type (C-cups, small waist, curvy hips, no ass). We could be twins. _Could_ being the key word. Upon closer inspection, you'll see we do have some differences. Some subtle, like how _I'm_ 5'6 and _she's_ 5'5. Others larger, like how Vianca has navy blue eyes with flecks of gold in them, while my eyes are smoky green with a caramel-like colour around my pupils. Vianca's slightly tanner than I am. My eyelashes and eyebrows are darker than her's. Her hair is fine and straight. Mine is thick and wavy. She has a mole beneath her bottom lip. I have light freckles on my nose. Her skin is flawless. We _could_ be twins, if you weren't looking close. I hope no one will look close.

I'm practically hyperventilating. Are people watching me? _No_, I tell myself firmly. I'm just an average citizen. Nothing remarkable or noticeable about me.

No sir.

Nothing.

I approach the bank teller, running my instructions through my head. A mental picture of Vianca's smooth, loopy handwriting pops into my head, and I reread the words. Having a photographic memory definitely has its perks. Alright, step one: Get to bank.

Check.

Step two: go to bank teller

In progress.

I smirk as I 'read' the side note in my instructions; '_Remain calm, darlin. Don't over think it, like I know you'll want to. xo'_

Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.

I walk up to a smiley blond woman behind the desk. I hand her the bank card.

"Ah, Miss Maroni," She greets me- Vianca- chipperly, "Here to make a withdrawal?"

"Yes," I say, forcing my voice to become higher pitched. Musical, even. Vianca always sounds like she's singing when she speaks.

I hand Shirley- That's what her name tag says- Vianca's bank card, and say (trying to sound confident), "I'd like to withdraw 10 million from the family account,"

Shirley doesn't even bat an eyelash at the obscene amount. Must be normal. This _is_ a mob bank. Or so the folder tells me

I wait impatiently for Shirley to retrieve the money. Patience was never one of my skills. That's probably why I never finish a Sudoku or a crossword, and why puzzles send me into fits. Truthfully, I don't understand why I need to get out so much money. What does ONE person do with all that? Then I remember who that ONE person is, and I no longer question my little mission. Shirley comes back a little later, the bills spilling out of her hands. There are several stacks, all wrapped in orange elastic bands. She plops them on the table, looking triumphant.

"There you are. Could you just sign this?" She hands me the receipt and I easily sign Vianca's name; I've been practicing for days. I smile at Shirley forcefully, but sweetly nonetheless. It must have been a little off 'cuz Shirl gave me a weird look, and I took that as my cue to look away and simply start dumping the seemingly never ending bills into my bag. Minding my gun as I do so.

I was about to leave and scurry back to the safety of my apartment, when a commotion made me whirl around to the front doors. Men, three of them, in masks- Clowns? - charge into the bank, their large guns raised. One of the men- his mask has a blue beard and he reminds me of the clown character "Bozo"- is carrying a blue duffel bag. Shots ring out.

Chaos ensues.

People start running around like chicken's without heads. I, instead duck beside a nearby desk, pulling out my revolver. Luckily I had loaded it before I left this morning. I lean over and watch another clown- based off his mask I name him Chuckles- take out the security guard and the clowns skirt further into the building.

"Get down! Hands up heads down! I said heads up hands down!" Chuckles yells at the hostages. Us.

Me.

People stop running and obey, cowering on the ground and shielding their heads with shaking arms. The other clown, who I name Grumpy, points his gun at Shirley, while Chuckles simply grabs another banker and pulls him over the counter, despite his protests. I hear the people around me; some crying, all praying, silently if not out loud. I notice Bozo making his way to all the hostages, pulling grenades- _Oh God-_ out of his duffel bag, and forcing them to hold them, or else they will blow up.

"Obviously," Grumpy's voice rings out, "We don't want ya doin' anythin' with your hands except holding on for dear life,"

Bozo finally makes his way over to me, almost looking casual as he reaches into the bag. I point my gun at him.

"You don't try and blow me up, I won't blow you off your feet," I hiss venomously. Don't notice me shaking. Don't notice the sweat on my forehead. Don't notice. Bozo stares at me through the mask. I feel him studying me. I tense angrily as he lets out a breezy chuckle but he walks away. I sigh with relief, but I don't put my gun away.

**BANG.** I yelp and look over as Grumpy is blown clear off his feet. A man, obviously the bank manager, steps out of his office, holding a huge shot gun. _Shit_. Bozo and Chuckles run to hide behind the desks, avoiding the bullets and the crazy man in the fancy suit. Bozo slides in beside me, breathing hard and checking over the desk. I stare at him wide-eyed. He doesn't notice because he runs further away, hunched over as the bank manager continues to shoot.

"You have any idea who your stealing from?" the bank manager shouts.

"You and you're friends are dead!" I must agree. This is not a bank you should rob from.

Close by I hear Chuckles say, "He's out right?" He's referring to the amount of shells that bank manager has. He's not, though; He has one more. But Chuckles pops up anyways, only to be clipped in the shoulder by a bullet. Bank Manager tries to shoot again but he's out. Then, Bozo springs up and pumps him full of bullets. I cover my mouth as he falls to the ground, sputtering and bleeding. This is the first time I've ever seen someone being shot. And, I doubt it will be the last. I watch, hand still over my mouth, Bozo cock his head to one side and stares at the fallen man. It sends shivers down my spine. He looks so curious; predatory. It just isn't... Normal. Fuck, none of this is. Chuckles, clutching his shoulder, yells angrily, "Where'd you learn to count?"

Bozo just stares at him.

I've been sitting here for five minutes. Where the hell are the police? I could, if I was heroic, try and stop these men. I have a gun. I know how to use it. But, this is none of my business. I already have business. I need to be alive, and if I attempt to help, guarantee the clowns won't give killing me a second thought. As long as they get their money.

Bozo strolls around the bank leisurely, waiting for Chuckles to return, surveying the hostages. There's something about his walk that, I don't know, makes me wary. But admittedly- and grudgingly- intrigued. It's graceful, but somewhat lopsided, and infuriatingly carefree. I'm thrown out of my thoughts when I feel someone's eyes on me. I re-focus my vision and flinch when I realize its Bozo, his body facing sideways, but his head turned to me. I stare right back at him. We remain like this until Chuckles gets his attention, and he goes to look at the several duffel bags strewn across the debris. Filled with money no doubt.

"That's a lot of money," Chuckles comments greedily, "If this Joker guy was so smart he'd of gotten a bigger car."

Joker? The name rings a bell. Isn't he that guy on the news? The newbie here in Gotham. Shit, the mobs going to be all over him.

I get on my knees and peek over the desk, wanting a better view. I nearly gasp as Bozo turns to pick up a bag, and Chuckles points his gun at him, clicking off the safety. Bozo freezes.

"I'm betting the Joker told you to kill me as soon as we loaded the cash," Chuckles says. He's shaking, I can see it. He's afraid. I feel acid in my throat. Bozo sighs resignedly, turning.

"No, no, no, _no_. I _kill-uh_ the **bus driver**," he replies, checking his watch. He looks up at Chuckles and sidesteps away from the gun. Chuckles side steps as well, keeping the gun trained on him.

"Bus driver?" Bozo sidesteps again as Chuckles continues, "What bus driv-"

The hostages, including myself, all scream as the back of a yellow school bus crashes into the bank, taking out Chuckles. Bozo, not in the least concerned, stumbles back a little. He looks up as another clown jumps out of the back of the bus while hooting cheerfully, "School's out, time to go," He notices Chuckles, who I assume is dead, and adds, "Cat's not gettin' up, is he?"

Jeezus. I've never seen so many dead people before. I'm not cut out for this shit. I'm practically puking over here and I'm pretty sure I have tears in my eyes. People are running around again, still gripping their grenades. I remain, however, on my knee's peering over the desk and watching the clowns. I swear to god, Krusty the clown will never be the same again, which is unfortunate because he's one of my favourites.

"That's a lot of money," New Clown breathes.

Clowns these days. All so _greedy__**. **_

Bozo starts passing New Clown the duffel bags, who then throw them into the bus. I'm amazed by Bozo, really. He doesn't even look tired.

"What happened to the rest of the guys?" New Clown asks stupidly. Bozo, in answer simply turns around and lifts his arm, shooting him dead like it's nothing. The hostages scream at the sound of another gun shot, and I accidentally bite my tongue. I taste blood, which I don't really mind. I'm not a vampire or nothing, or a freak; I just don't mind the taste of my own blood. Still can't peel my eyes off the remaining clown though. His calm, collected manner is almost- _definitely_- menacing. I'm afraid of him, sure, who wouldn't be? His complete disregard for human life is astounding. But, Jeezus, he's magnetic. _A powerful force_, my Gramma would say. My eyes follow him as he walks away from the bus, looking for something. He finds the last duffel bag and hoists it over to the bus. He's about to get in, but Mr. Bank Manager, whom I thought for sure was dead, says bitterly, "Think you're smart, huh?" Bozo stops and looks over his shoulder at Bank Manager._ Shut up,_ I tell him silently._ Just shut up. _ But he continues anyways.

"The guy that hired youse is just gonna do the same to you," He's squirming on the ground, his blood seeping around him. The acidic feeling in my throat is back. Bozo gets off the bus and looks down, distractedly rifling through his blue jackets pockets, finally glancing up at Bank Manager before striding nonchalantly yet purposefully toward him._ Shit._

"Criminals in this town used to believe in things," his voice is acidic, spiteful. Bozo is almost upon his now. I can feel my heart beat in my mouth. Fast, heavy, erratic.

"Honour. Respect." Bank Manager spits out as Bozo crouches over him, pulling something from his pocket.

"What do you believe in, huh?" Bank Manager shouts, "What do you bel-" He's cut off when Bozo slides a grenade calmly into his mouth._ Christ._

"I believe," Bozo's voice, I notice, is strange. Higher pitched than most men's. Nasally. Uneven...

Frightening.

"That whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you..." Bozo reaches up and pulls off his mask. Bank Manager gasps; _I _nearly have a heart attack.

"... Stranger," the man- he _can't _be human- flashes Bank Manager a grin then stands up, leaving him dazed on the ground, grenade still in his mouth. I watch Bozo- well, no- walk away, and I notice that a piece of thread that is attached to his jacket is loose. Then I see that the thread is attached to the grenade in Bank Manager's mouth.

"Shit," I breathe, then jump off the ground and run toward the closest exit, not caring if the clown notices. I figure he's got the money so there's no need to shoot me now. Besides, I feel like we have a bit of an understanding, almost an allegiance. I get out and in the distance I hear sirens.

_About time_.

~/~

Turns out I made it out of the bank of the bank just in time. The police had rounded up the hostages- apart from me- and questioned them thoroughly. No doubt their quotes will be in the papers tomorrow. I would've interrogated too if I hadn't skedaddled on out of there. And getting involved with the police is a really, really bad idea. Not part of the plan at all.

Burning Vianca's bank card is part of the plan. I watch it burn solemnly, if not a little proudly. I completed another -and one of the most important- tasks in my folder. I could've died while doing it but that almost adds to my pride. I feeling pretty bad ass right now. Fuck modesty. My good mood is taken over by a shiver, however as today's events play in my head. Sometimes my photographic memory is more like video recording memory. The exchange between the clown and Bank Manager replays over and over in my head.

'Simply makes you stranger.' 'Simply makes you stranger' 'Simply makes you stranger,'

What an ugly twist on an otherwise inspiring saying. Said, although, by a man who I assume has seen and done a lot of ugly in his life. I can't get his... _face_ out of my head. Toxic green-maybe blond- hair, longish and greasy framing a chalky white face with thick black smudges around his eyes, and blood red slashes across his mouth and cheeks; in an eternal, grizzly smile. This, I assume, is _the Joker_.

What a _wonderful_ welcome to this_ wonderful_ city.

**There it is. I hope I didn't screw up this scene from the movie. I studied the scene several times, and I have TDK script (get it, it helps and is just awesome to have) so I think it's pretty good. But if you spot something, by all means inform me.**

**See ya. **

_**linnie kinda spinnie **_


	2. Chapter 2

**So, didn't get many reviews, but hey, what can you do? I got a pretty good amount of hits/visitors and a couple faves/alerts so yay for that and thank you all.**

**Ok, so in case you were confuddled, you are right, I never mentioned my Oc's name. No worries, I didn't forget. On the contrary, twas done on purpose. And, if you're a little confused with what my OC is doing, don't be. It will all be revealed in due time, just slowly and gradually.**

**Alrighty, this chappie includes many-a-thing, which is why it is so ridiculously long (16 pages). I'll tell you now, I am an author who prefers longer chapters but less of them as opposed to short chapters but a ton of them. Anyways, this chapter contains some character development, it introduces some more minor Oc's and, drum roll puhlease... Lots of Jokery goodness! Oh, and my Oc's and the Joker's little, ah, scene is set after a certain part in the movie; I'm sure you'll figure out which one.**

**Alright, 'nuff outta me**

**Disclaimer: Nope don't own! I attempted to steal the Joker but you know what I realized?... No one steals the Joker, the Joker steals YOU!**

Chpt. 2 **The Warehouse**

_We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell~ William Shakespeare_

I decide after the little the bank incident that it would I should lay low for a few days. Three, to be exact. I wish I could stay in my bed forever, but I have things to do.

Tasks to complete.

More dark clothing. And a 'beauty mark', just for good measure. I don't bother with the contacts though. They're itchy, so I decide to just wear my sunglasses again. Besides, the shade of blue of the contacts is the wrong colour anyways.

Not going anywhere special- and thankfully, not busy- this time. Just a little boutique on 23rd and Socorro. It's called '_Peaches Stitches_'. Yeah, I know, it doesn't really rhyme. But according to my folder, they "make darling dresses". The owner, Peaches (I seriously doubt that is what her name certificate says, but hey, whatever makes her happy) is an old friend of Vianca's. Probably because she gets almost all her clothes there. See, Vianca didn't go to stores and buy existing dresses. No, she sketches all the clothes she wants, and takes them to Peaches to make for her. Vianca is an amazing drawer. Her specialties are portraits (mostly of attractive males) and clothing designs.

Again, I take the bus, and it'll take about twenty minutes to get there. To bide the time, I put my head phones in, and I mouth the words to 'Rhiannon'. I'm a huge Fleetwood Mac fan. Stevie Knicks is my idol. City and Colour's Dallas Green is a close second though. I smile as Stevie sings, remembering my disgust when Vianca told me she didn't know who Fleetwood Mac was. I had forced her after that to stay in my room and listen to their album "Rumours" over and over again. Eventually, she was able to sing all their songs, lyric for lyric. Just like me. Of course, she did have a better singing voice than me. My voice is too low and husky to hit the high notes.

I'm already half way there when I realize I have forgotten my gun.

~/~

_Peaches Stitches_ is a small, square building with salmon coloured bricks and multi-coloured mannequins with lopsided heads in the display window. For a moment I think I have the wrong address. This is _so_ not Vianca's style. Then, I notice the dresses on the mannequins, and I walk right in. They are all gorgeous. And most of all, all from different eras. Sixties, seventies, eighties. And most importantly, forties. Vianca's obsessed with the forties style. Her muse is Veronica Lake. Her dad had taken her to see "I married a Witch" and she fell in love. I actually have never seen one of her movies, but once I Googled her and, yeah, she's pretty interesting. An alcoholic but completely gorgeous and talented. A perfect muse for Vianca.

I go up to the counter, which is covered in glitter, and ask for Peaches. A moment later a black woman with frizzy orange hair, long red finger nails and startling light grey eyes walks out. She squeals when she sees me.

"VIA!"

She attacks me.

I choke as she squeezes me. She's a good half foot taller than me, and with branch-like arms that have the grip of a fucking anaconda.

"Uh, hi, hon," I say breathlessly, trying my best to use my 'Vianca voice'. I "re-read" what the folder says about Peaches in my head.

'_Peaches is a genius with a sewing machine, but a little kooky. She loves hugging people and doesn't fully understand the term "personal space". She's a darling though. She never lets her costumer's down, and she makes the most beautiful creations. She doesn't have a mean bone in her body and she loves to laugh. But, if she asks you out for coffee, don't say yes. She'll talk endlessly, and won't let you leave. And she gets hyper on caffeine... It's not cute._

_P.S- Her hair isn't real... But her eyes are._

_Good luck. xo' _

Of course there is more than that in the folder; age, home town, criminal record, ect. But they aren't really important. Not right now anyways.

Peaches finally lets me go, but, unfortunately, she squeals some more.

"Wha' didn't ya tell me you were comin'?"

"It was last minute," I reply, wincing from all her shrieking.

"Where've ya been? Why havin' you returned my calls?" she asks, but she's not upset. Nope, she's as excited as a child who's about to get a cookie... Kids get excited about that, right?

"Oh, you know. School, social groups..."

"Boyfriends," Peaches interrupts, grinning slyly, "You still got dat boy, right?"

"Peachy, darling, I always have a boy," I answer smoothly, hiding the shivers running down my back with a coy smile. But, I don't want to go into _that_ subject, so I change the topic.

"I know its last minute, but I need you to make me some dresses," I say, pulling out two pieces of paper from my satchel. The paper's are the sketches of the dresses I, apparently, _need_ to wear. I rip them out of the folder. I don't see why I can't just choose my own dresses, but whatever. The folder's like my boss, my master.

_Must obey._

I hand the sketches to Peaches and she looks them over, her eyes widening and her mouth forming an 'O'.

"These are gorg!" she shrieks, bouncing on her feet a little, which I notice are encased in fuzzy, fur covered heels. I wince at her noises again, but still smile toothily, like Vianca always does. I still need to work on my 'Vianca Smile'. The only reason why I'm not scaring Peaches with it, like before with Shirley, is because she's not actually looking at me. She's still gaping at the sketches like there the map to the lost city of Atlantis.

"I need them by the end of next week," I say. She nods vigorously, and goes running into the back room. I follow her and see her rummaging through her materials. The room is a mess. Clothing fabric and half made clothes are strewn everywhere. I can't tell what colour the carpet is (but I'm betting its zany). But, Peaches looks happy and excited. Almost deliriously so.

It's actually a little concerning.

"Can you do it?" I ask. She looks up at me with a crazed smile.

"'Course! Anythin' fuh you, Via," She chirp happily, using Vianca's nickname. She actually hates that that nickname, she just doesn't have the heart to tell anyone that. At least not the people that come in handy for her anyway. I don't have to worry about that, though. I always call her Vee.

_Jeezus, I miss her_

"Okay, thanks hon. I gotta get going. I'll call in a few days about the progress," I say, and watch Peaches face fall.

"Oh, ya gotta go so soon? I was hoping we could go fah some coff-"

"No!" I interrupt quickly, "I, um, have to go meet someone for lunch. Sorry. Maybe some other time?" I smile sheepishly. Peaches nods, suddenly happy again. She's like a big, full grown chid. It's kind of funny, in a highly disturbing way...

"I'll hold you to that," she warns playfully.

"Of course you will," I respond, trying to smile again. I maybe I did it right this time, because Peaches simply beams at me.

~/~

I decide, before I go back to my apartment, to go to Vianca's old apartment. I've been going there every once and awhile all week (well not the last three days. Remember, lying low), just gathering some of her old stuff. I've got a list of things I need to get, and I only have a few more things to go.

Okay, so Vianca's apartment is really big. It's actually a penthouse. Two down from the Prince of Gotham's Bruce Wayne's penthouse no less. It has an amazing view of the city, but only the fancy parts. The fancy part makes Gotham misleading. It's a patch of flowers in a field of spiky, ugly weeds.

I have a key, although the Folder does give me detailed instructions on how to pick a lock. And hotwire a car...

Uh, yeah...I have a key.

Vianca's penthouse is still fully furnished, but besides that it's basically empty. Only three books on the bookshelf ('How to cook for idiots', 'The world of Italy' and 'The history of the Mafia'). There's no food in the obese fridge, no clothes in the closet (which of course is a walk-in). Well, actually, there are some clothes left, but only the ones that aren't on the list of 'Must Keeps'. Basically, the place is empty, and my apartment is filled with boxes. All Vianca's shit. And she has a lot of it... Stuff. Stuff, I mean.

~/~

So, I'm gathering up the last of the 'Must Keeps', when I hear the familiar click of a gun being cocked.

_Shit_

"Boss ain't happy wi' chu, Via," a deep, thickly accented Italian voice says behind me. I turn slowly, dropping my stuff and silently cursing myself for forgetting my gun. My mind's eye can see it now, grinning smugly on my night table. I so badly want to put my hands up in surrender. But, Vianca would never do that.

I _need_ to be Vianca.

Two men, both counting guns at me, in Vianca's penthouse. Did I ever mention how much I hate guns? Yeah, I _normally_ have one and _sometimes _use one, but only if I have to. Well, actually I have yet to fire this one. The men pointing weapons at me are classic looking Italians. Deep olive skin, neat dark hair, shrewd dark eyes and looking sleek in their tailored suits. I recognize them from the Folder. They are Vinn and Carlisle, two of Salvatore Maroni's men. The Folder, I recall, tells me they aren't very smart, but are fiercely loyal to Sal.

This could prove to be an issue.

"What chu do this time, Via?" one of the men asks, his accent more Jersey than Italian. This is Vinn. The other is Carlisle.

"You didn't hear? Took out fifteen mill. from the family account," Carlisle sneers. I raise an eyebrow, a very Vianca move.

"Actually, it was twenty-five million," I smile sweetly, but my body's stiff._ Put your guns away, assholes, I'm unarmed. _But they're probably trying to make up for the fact they were never able to put their Italian sausage in Vianca's fridge, if you catch my drift. Vinn's face twists into a nasty smile. I inwardly groan. The Folder mentions this face. This is the face he gets when he wants to fuck something. And, I'm told, he really, really wants to fuck Vianca. Tried many times before too, apparently. But Vianca can have any guy she wants. _Why would she want you?_ Oh, awesome. Now he's ogling my boobs. I regret wearing a V-neck.

"You look good, Via," Vinn whistles, sliding closer to me. Carlisle hangs back, still sneering and pointing his gun at me.

"Been too long. Didja' miss me?" Vinn drawls, stepping a little ways in front of me. God, he's so slimy. How had Vianca managed to deal with him all these years?

"Not nearly as much as you missed me," I coo. Lead him on. 'Cos that's what Vianca would do. He bares his teeth and shifts his beady eyes back down to my breasts.

"Boss says we supposed tah bring you tah him so you and him can have a 'lil chat. But, maybe Carlisle and I can tell him we dan't see youse, if you give us a little taste..." His hands reach out, hovering over my breasts.

Oh, _fuck no_

Before he can lay a single greasy, Jersey finger on me and my girls, I jab him, hard, in the solar plexus with a tightly clenched fist.

Down he goes.

"Bitch," Carlisle snarls, rushing towards me, looking wild. Like charging bull. As I recall, consulting my photo-memory, Carlisle has a bit of a nasty temper. I dodge him quickly, and try to rush past him to the door, but he reaches out and yanks me back by my hair. He whips me to the ground and lands on top of me, his hands around my throat. I fight him, scratching at his hands, kicking my legs and spitting in his face. He's winning.

Do you normally see dots when you're choked?

"Hey, hey! Whoa! Dan't kill thah broad. Boss wants her alive," I vaguely hear Vinn say. It's kinda hazy now. I can't really see or hear. And fuck, it really hurts. Note to self:

_Don't ever be strangled again. It isn't fun._

The hands are gone from my neck but before I can react, the handle of a gun hits me, really fucking hard, on the side of my head. The dots in my vision all ooze together, then I'm out.

~/~

I wake up to the sensation of someone touching my leg. And, though the touch is deceitfully gentle, I shudder and instinctually move away. My eyes flash open, and with a painful gulp, I realize I'm in a car I do not recognize, seated between Vinn and Carlisle. Vinn's hand is on my thigh, and he's looking out the window, a slight smirk on his thin lips. I hate his mouth. It is a mouth that I'm sure has weaseled its way into getting everything he wants. He's a con artist, and he frightens me. I don't want him or his hand or his mouth or _him_ anywhere near me. But then there's Carlisle, whom is currently yelling at the chauffeur. He strangled me, and hit me in the fucking hit head with a gun. Out of the two of them, I believe he is the most likely to kill me.

"Yah awake," Vinn states, his sugary, slick voice making me cringe.

_Nice observation, Gill Grissom_

I grumble unintelligibly in response cradling my throbbing head in my hands, which I note are shaking. Yep, I got myself a good sized goose egg on the side of my head. I _hate guns._

"Isn't chu goin' tah ask where we takin' you?" Vinn inquires curiously, his dark eyes glinting. I know that kind glint. This guy is a sadist; one step beneath being some fucked up serial killer. One very small step. Maybe that why he works for Maroni, so he can satisfy his, ahem, urges.

_Don't think you're going to be satisfying anything with me, buddy_

"Don't wanna be a cliché, I guess," I grouse, wanting to move further away from him but then I'd be practically sitting in Carlisle's lap, who I also dislike greatly. Jackass hit me with a gun. I do believe I am developing a grudge...

Vinn yaps at me the rest of the car ride, and I do my best to ignore him. His voice however is very grating, so the task is difficult.

"... it would be pink. I think you wuh' look real sexy in pink," Vinn drones on, until Carlisle (thank God. He'd be my hero if I didn't have that grudge) interrupts him.

"Boss says he'll deal with her after the meeting,"

I'm pretty sure when he says 'meeting', he doesn't really mean the type like in 'the Office'. This is probably some crazy ass mob meeting, in a fancy, low lit room with leather chairs and love seats, and waitresses in skimpy outfits serving to men, all smoking cigars and fondling bimbo's that are in their laps. The location is probably an elegant restaurant, or an insanely decadent hotel...

...A. Fucking. _Warehouse_?

Well, Gramma always told me my imagination would leave me disappointed with life. And, the disappointment I feel is actually very strong. I really wanted to sit in a comfy leather chair, and sneer at the bimbo's. I like sneering at bimbo's. Something Vianca taught me_; "We're better than them, darlin'. Might as well let them know it."_

Vinn opens the door, and drags me out of the car, still nannering about the colour pink. I actually have nothing against pink, except that I blush a lot, and wearing pink just brings out the colour more. I get flustered easily, and I don't want to wear a colour that accents the hideous colour my cheeks turn. Linking his arm in mine, Vinn escorts me into the warehouse, ludicrously reminding me of how Graham McKinely had walked me into the school gym at winter formal all those years ago. That dance _sucked_. It was grade ten, and Graham was too shy to dance with me. Also, no one would share their booze with me. I really needed a drink that night. We wander into the building and I blink uncomfortably in the harsh, fluorescent lights. Ugh. I hate this kind of lighting. It does nothing for my complexion.

_...What the fuck?_

I'm concerned about my _skin_ instead of the two men, who have _**kidnapped**_ me, have guns and work for a man who's pissed at me ( Vianca ) for taking his money ( technically theirs but he's male, he thinks everything is his ) without his permission. Jeezus, how hard did Carlisle hit me? Vinn leads me into a room with no furniture, mouldy grey walls and smells faintly of pasta.

Homey.

Vinn, being the gentleman he is, shoves me to the ground and tosses keys to Carlisle. It almost makes me laugh. The key is on one of those round key chains, but it's really big, making me think of a 'Nancy Drew Mystery' for some strange reason.

Yeah, I probably have brain damage. Damn you Carlisle. Damn you Carlisle's gun.

"I'm guna' geh'us some food," Vinn says, walking past Carlisle to the door.

"Watch her," he adds, and Carlisle gives him a 'duh' look. I flinch when Vinn slams the door behind him. I look up at Carlisle; His face is set, total poker face, and his arms are crossed over his chest as he leans on the door. We stare at each other for a bit, then I smile sheepishly. He doesn't react. I huff, then sit up, cross legged and turn away from him, pouting a little. This was not how today was supposed to go. At. All. I mean, I am so screwed. Maroni, after one good look at me, is going to know I'm an imposter. And not just because I'm not wearing blue contacts. He's known Vee since birth. I will never be able to fool him. Plus my cold sweats have probably washed off my 'beauty mark'.

Yep, I'm a dead girl. Dead, dead, deady, dead, dead...

~/~

After twenty minutes, and some good thinking, I decide that, hey, I don't really want to die. At least not without a little annoying resistance on my part. I say annoying 'cause I'm about to bug the hell out a lot of Italians.

"I have to pee," I announce, cocking my head at Carlisle. He doesn't budge.

"I needa piss," I repeat, and although Vianca would never say something so unlady-like, I decide I really don't care. I'm officially not acting anymore. This is all me. All _me_ attempting to escape. I've never had to escape before (unless you count the bank but no one was trying to stop me that time) so this'll probably be a little rocky.

Bear with me.

Carlisle grunts in annoyance and suggests, "Jus' go in the corner," My face screws up in disgust.

"Ew. First of all, I'm not an animal. Second, do you want to stink the room up? You're stuck in here too and-..." Carlisle holds up his hand, stopping me, and his other hand squeezes the bridge of his nose.

Oh.

I'm giving him a head ache... _Good._

"Fine," he finally sighs, motioning for me to come with him. Cautiously, I get to my feet, feeling slightly dizzy. Damn, I hope I don't have a concussion. I wobble over to him, and he opens the door, prodding me in the back with his gun, which has magically appeared in his hand.

"No funny buis-" I cut him off by whirling around and kneeing him swiftly in the crotch. He doubles over in pain, and I knock his gun out of his hand, and point it at his sweaty face.

_How does it feel, Jackass?_

"Give me the keys," I bite out. Wheezing and bent over, Carlisle is till as stubborn as ever. Yeah, well, I'm almost sure I'm worse. I click off the safety and point it sideways, like an amateur mugger does.

"Give me. The fucking. Keys," Carlisle glares at me murderously, but my glare is far more scary... I hope.

"C'mon, c'mon," I urge impatiently, watching as he digs around is his pocket. I sigh a little when I hear the lovely jingling sound of oversized key chain. Grudgingly, Carlisle plops the keys into my palm.

"Thanks," Gramma always told me to be polite, "Now, back up slowly," He does so, backing into the room again.

"Keep going til' you're back hits the wall," I order, waving the gun at him. He bares his teeth at me, but obeys. Once his back is against the wall at the back of the room, I give him a mocking wave, then swing the door shut. I hear him shout and stomp toward the door, but the key is already in the keyhole. There's a satisfying _click_, and he yells again, pulling at the door knob uselessly. First escape, ever, and I say it's off to a lovely start.

"Shit, Via,"

I jerk around and see Vinn looking at me with a disappointed expression, like that of a father discovering his teen daughter has snuck out of the house at night.

I run.

Sure, I have a gun, so why don't I just shoot him? 'Cause then this will be even more personal. I he lives, he'll want revenge. If he dies, the rest of his buddies will want revenge. It's an Italian thing. He calls out after me. It's not angry, like one would suspect, but rather worried and maybe slightly annoyed. Strange; Vinn must not have the classic Italian/Jersey temper...

Focus!

Okay, I need to get out of here. Alright, alright. So, I came in here and we turned left down a long hallway, then right half way down another hallway. Again, my photo-memory definitely comes in handy at times like this. I can see the way we came clearly , in full detail. My only hope is to circle back and get out the way I came in. I dash into an open room and hide in a dark corner . I stop breathing and listen. I hear Vinn panting and running down the hall.

"Via? Via, c'mon! Come back," he calls in a whiny voice. Okay, good, he didn't see me run in here. I hold my breath until he passes by the room I'm in, and his hurried footsteps fade away. I slink to the door and poke my head out. Look left. Empty. Look right. Empty.

Run.

I sprint back the way I came, confident I'm going the right way. I'll be outta here in no time. I gulp fearfully as I pass the room I had locked Carlisle in; the door is wide open. He's gone.

Oh god, oh god, oh god...

I slow down a little, perking my ears and listening closely. Footsteps. Arguing. Coming closer.

_Shit_

I sprint again, even though my head is throbbing, and my legs and lungs burn. I look down at my gun. I may just have to. I don't want to. I hate you. You kill people, not to mention gave me a wicked bump on my head. But you could become my friend, just for a moment , and help me out here. How 'bout that?

Dear lord... I'm going crazy.

I don't have time to ponder my current mental state as I round a corner, running full speed into another body, which was running full speed in the opposite direction. You can imagine the outcome. Like two trains hitting each other head on. Except I land underneath the other train, hitting my already battered head. And dropping my gun.

"Fuck," I moan, my eyes squeezing shut, my hand cradling my bruised noggin. The train on top of me giggles...? He giggled, and that kind of pisses me off, but also really surprises me. I was sure that the train I had crashed into was Carlisle or Vinn, but neither of them seem like the giggling sort. I open one eye, very hesitantly, and for a moment, I wish it was Vinn or Carlisle. The face hovering over mine belongs to the most hellish creature I've ever seen. Scraggly, acidic washed out green hair, almost touching my face. Distorted panda bear eyes, complete with black eyeliner. Chalky, peeling ghost white skin except on its mouth. Red smears over raised, bulbous cheeks and mouth. A clown from fucking hell, complete with a purple and green suit.

"You..." I half gasp, half groan. I remember him. It's Bozo the fuckin' clown, aka bank robber extraordinaire aka The -_fucking_ -Joker.

Have I mentioned I am exceedingly unlucky person?

"Well, hello there, gah-reen eyes," he drawls, smiling widely down at me.

"Of all the rotten, fucking luck." I mumble, still wincing from the new bump on my head, warily watching the clown on top of me. And when I say on top, I do mean _on top_. Sprawled, actually. The only reason why I'm not suffocating under his weight is because he's supporting himself on his elbows, which are at either side of my head. He pulls back a little, squinting at me.

"Ohhh," he suddenly says, giggling wheezily and bending back toward me.

"You're the broad with the, ah, _gun,_" he says, licking his ruby lips and nodding.

"I rec-og-nize those eyes, uh, those eyes-_suh_ of yours," he goes on, his face so close now that our noses almost touch. I nod a little, stiffening my muscles. This guy seems like a very fragile bomb. If I struggle, I just might set him off. Better to stay still and wait for him to get off me. Although, he doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry...

"And-_duh_ what's a _lady_ like you doin' in a place like _this_?" the Joker asks me, tilting to his head to one side, reminding me of the day at the bank, after he had shot Bank Manager.

"Kidnapped," I grumble bitterly. He chuckles a little, wetting his lips, making the red paint (lipstick?) shine in the harsh lights. The action is strange. One might think it was a sexually suggestive act, but I don't think so. Maybe if anyone else did it, but for him it seemed as natural as breathing. Unnerving, definitely, but natural.

"What do the, ah, _Italians_ want with you? This is Mah-roni's little head-quar-ters, yes?" his voice is bubbly, almost friendly, but I don't believe it for a second. This man is quite capable of killing me, without a second thought. I saw him kill two (three if you count Grumpy and the bus) men like they were nothing. Because they were. They were nothing to him.

And, I'm nothing to him.

"I think so," I whisper in response, unable to keep eye contact. His dark eyes are very intense and frightening; those smudges around them don't help. Or, do help, depending on your point of view.

"Mmm-hmmm," he breathes out deeply through his nose, still grinning down at me. Now I can't stop staring at his, um, 'smile'. I realize, upon closer inspection the red paint (seriously, I hope it's not actually lipstick) is covering horrible, painful looking scars. The scars start at both corners of his mouth, and slide up his cheek in a grisly, ever-smile. Vee mentioned something like this before. She called it a Glasgow Smile. Or a Chelsea Grin. Slicing up the cheeks so it looks like a smile. An age old form of torture, mostly used by the mob. Vee told me that when you get your cheeks sliced, that you can't help but scream, which only rips the flesh open more. I didn't ever ask how she knew this. I still don't want to know.

"So, uh, what does ol' Mah-roni wan-_tuh_ with you, green eyes?" the Joker inquires, scanning my face. I can just imagine what I look like; blood on the side of my head where Carlisle had hit me, a split lip, miscellaneous scratches and a necklace of bruises on my neck. I'll have to buy a boat load of cover-up to hide those. I just know they're going to be purple and ugly.

"Well, I don't think he wants me here to welcome me to his city," I murmur, shifting my legs, trying to give this guy a hint; GET OFF!

"_His_ city?" his chalky eyebrows raise and his tongue grazes his lips slowly.

"Sure. Ever since Falcone went nuttier than a squirrel, Maroni has taken over," I'd shrug if I could move my shoulder. Why am I having this conversation? Shouldn't I be kicking and screaming? No, 'cause then Vinn and Carlisle would find me.

"Hmm. What-_tuh_ 'bout, ah, Gambol and that Russian fellow, hm? Do they own-_nah_ Gotham too?" he asks, his voice becoming a little deeper. Did I say something that pissed him off? Jeezus, I hope not.

"Well, I shouldn't have said that Maroni _owned_ Gotham or whatever I had said. No one has owned Gotham since the Batman showed up. He has criminals in this town with their tails between their legs. But, Maroni, Gambol and the Russian guy are the considered the top dogs, even if their tails are between their legs too," I nanner on, simply spewing the info the Folder had given me, chewing on the corner of my mouth when the clown didn't reply.

"Um, if you don't mind me asking," I say hesitantly, "But why are _you_ here?" I know that was pretty bold, and maybe mildly stupid, but the way I see it I don't have all that much to lose. Well... that's not entirely true, but whatever. I'm curious.

"Group-_ah_ therapy," the Joker replies dryly, rolling his eyes playfully before snickering quietly, his breath heating my face.

"Huh," is all I can say. Although heaven knows he needs it, I don't think the sort of group therapy he participated in was the type where you share your feelings.

'Hi, my name is Joker, and I'm a psychotic clown,'

'Hi Joker,'

The thought of this mad clown in an actual group therapy almost makes me giggle.

"Yeah and-"the criminal begins, but stops, his eyebrows scrunching together, his dark eyes drilling into my face. I can't help but blush. His gaze isn't lewd or anything. It's searching and analyzing; it makes me uncomfortable. Not to mention embarrassed.

"Say, aren't you, heh, ah- you're Mah-roni's lil sis-ter, cah-rrect? Hm?" he asks, trying his best not to laugh, but little sniggers keep escaping his mouth. I don't answer. Let him think whatever he wants.

"Yeah, yeah. I've seen pictah-tures. Don't do ya jus-tice, green eyes. Not. At. All," he giggles, his voice playfully patronizing,

"What, did-_deh_ you and brother dearest have a spat? So, so he got his little, ah, _boys-zuh_ to rough you up a bit? Tsk, tsk, tsk," he tutts, waving a purple finger in my face, his words filled with laughter. His chest is vibrating with his guffaws. I can feel them against my chest. It makes my face flush more.

"Aren't_-tah_ big bro's sah-posed tah protect their sis-ter's?" he growls, his tone suddenly biting and angry. Jeez, this guy a skitzo? I hear a click, and I whimper when I see a knife- switchblade- in my face.

"Or," his voice is dark, dripping with menace, but quiet, "Did sis-ter dearest start it? Did little sis berrrr-reak one of bro's, ah, _toys_, and he's just putting sis-ter in her place-_uh_? Huh?" He presses the tip of the blade to my cheek, and if I was afraid before, I'm fucking terrified now.

"Maybe," I squeak, unable to think of a better answer. He stares at me a moment, before exploding with laughter. I flinch at the grating, hyena-like sound. That there is a devil laugh. Scratch that- even the devil would cover his ears if he heard it. I'm almost certain he would.

"May-be? Heh, maybe? _Oooh_, green eyes, that is a wond-er-full answer! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful," he titters excitedly, tracing my jaw line with the dull side of the knife, "I mean, it rah-veals absolutely _nothing_, but-_uh_ lets the imagination run _wild_! And ya know what?" he leans down, his mouth next to my ear.

"I _**like**_ wild things,"

I shiver and gulp at the lump in my throat. I want this guy off me. **Now.**

"Plea-"the knife is shoved against my mouth before I can get a word out.

"Oh, no, no, _no_," the Joker admonishes fervently, his face donning a look of half adoration, half malice. How he manages that, I'm not sure.

"Mah-roni's. Don't. Beg-_uh_," he chides, pressingly the blade bruisingly against my lips.

"Get me?" he barks, the adoration gone, leaving only maliciousness. I nod furiously, my eyes filling up with tears of fear and pain. Now I can add bruised lips to my list of injuries.

"G_ooood_," the Joker purrs, taking the switchblade off my lips and raking it through my tangled hair. He doesn't say anything more. No, he seems content to just smile lazily at me, distractedly running his knife through my hair, humming to himself. It's terribly awkward for me. Where do I look? His eyes are out of the question. His mouth is even worse. So, I study his ensemble. Long, deep purple over coat, reaching to probably around his knee's (now it is making a tent around our lower halves) or further than that. Matching trouser's, the fancy kind (are those suspenders?). Underneath his jacket seems to be a hunter green waistcoat, a dark tie (looks a little over used and un-ironed) and a periwinkle dress shirt with what looks like a hexagonal pattern on it. It's a... _Unique_ fashion choice, to say the least. After a few more minutes of being trapped under a clown with a fetish for knives, I start getting annoyed.

"Um, Mr... Joker, sir?" I clear my throat, stumbling on my words. He looks at me sardonically, quirking his stained mouth. Before I can say another word, I hear shouting and footsteps coming our way.

_Oh goody_

"Weh thah fuck is she-"

I tilt my head back, and look upside-down as Vinn and Carlisle round the corner at the end of the hallway, and see me and the Joker. They freeze, and I feel the vibrations of a chuckle from the Joker go through me.

"Those your, ah, 'nappers?" he stage whispers, smiling happily. I nod.

"Unfortunately," I say dryly, rubbing my head again. The Joker suddenly springs to his feet, dragging me along with him. I grunt and sway, but he steadies me with a gloved hand on my shoulder.

"Vianca," Vinn barks sharply, for once showing a little anger. Oh, so _he_ can man-handle me, but no one else can?

_Jackass_

I cringe when the Joker tightens his hold on me, his spidery fingers curling crushingly around my collar bones. He yanks me tightly to his side, his movements jerky and violent. But, he's laughing. Pretty darn hard, too.

"These, uh, these _bozo's_ 'napped you? Oh, jeez, Green Eyes," he chortles and wheezes, pointing childishly at Vinn and Carlisle, whom are still frozen. I'm pretty sure the clown is making fun of me.

Awesome.

"They had guns," I mumble in my defence.

"_Hmm_?" the Joker turns his attention to me, squeezing my shoulder painfully. The list goes on. I take this as a clue to look at him. Jeezus, this guy is tall. A good six feet, two inches. Probably would be taller if his shoulders weren't so hunched. He has broad shoulders, and a wide frame, but he seems rather gangly. Kind of like a teenager.

"Nothing," I murmur, glancing away. His eyes unnerve me. I can't tell their colour, not with all that black crud around them. They look black. But, no one's eyes are black...

Right?

He bends a little, his nose in my hair. Oh god, don't sniff it, don't sniff it...

He inhales deeply (_sigh_) and asks huskily, "These bad men givin' ya trah-bles, lil' lady?" I nod, 'cos it's true. They certainly are. The Joker straightens, giggling.

"Paws off, clown," Vinn growls, pointing his gun at him. He won't shoot, though. He might hit me. Which I'm sure was the clown's plan all along.

"Uh, sorry, Guido, but I think-_kuh_ the little lady prefers my paws-_zuh_ to yours," the Joker replies, and I inwardly protest; I would _prefer_ no paws on me at all.

"Fuck off, Smiley, and give us the girl. Or we'll take 'er from ya," Carlisle says stonily, but takes a threatening step toward us. I like how I have no say in this at all. The Joker sighs, then with the hand not on my shoulder opens up one side of his coats lapels, revealing- get this- fucking _explosives_. A string is hanging out, and the clown grabs it, pretending to pull on it. I make a low whining sound in my throat and shy away. The Joker just pulls me closer, humming a low "Shh" into my hair. Carlisle and Vinn's mouths drop open, and I giggle a little deliriously, but it is drowned out by the Joker saying, "Still wanna come get-_uh_ her, Guido's?"

Vinn and Carlisle look at the Joker, at me, at each other, then step back slowly, lowering their guns. The Joker pouts, eyeing them as they slowly retreat.

"You two," he says, letting go of me to brandish a gun, "Are no fun," and proceeds to pump them full of lead. I yelp in surprise at the horrifyingly loud bangs, watching wide-eyed as Vinn and Carlisle remain erect a second, then slump to the floor. Blood pools onto the linoleum floor, almost black in colour. Their eyes, still fading as life leaves them, are just as wide as mine.

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgod..._

_**Fuck **_

I hate, hate, _hate_ dead bodies. Dead people. Dead people I don't know, ones I do (for however briefly). It affects a person, you know? I mean, before all this Gotham shit, I had only ever seen one dead body; at my great uncles funeral when I was nine. I was dared to peel back his eye lid to see what colour his eyes were.

They were a milky, filmy blue.

I notice my shoulder is no longer in a vice grip, and I sway against the wall, hand pressing into my mouth in an effort to stop the vomit that is climbing up my throat. The Joker is just having a grand old time. He's slumped against the wall opposite me, practically dying of laughter.

"Di-did-" he chokes over cackles, "Didja' see their _faces?" _and bursts into more howls of mirth. I cough a little, wiping whatever tears I have in my eyes, but straighten, composing myself. I dust off my dirty shirt and warily glance at my 'saviour'. I jump a little when I see he's stopped laughing, and he's staring at me. He clears his throat obnoxiously, raising his eyebrows.

_What?_

"No, uh, _thank you's?_" he demands, his tongue darting over his crimson lips.

"You killed two men. Why would I _thank _you?" I retort, maybe a little vexed. This clown is really starting to piss me off. His disregard for human life is sickening. He gives me a bewildered look, like I've just said the stupidest thing imaginable.

"Uh, these _men, _as you so kind-ly called them, kill-_uh_ people for a living. They had it comin'. Ever heard of Kar-mah?" he inquires rhetorically, twirling his gun around his finger like a cowboy.

"Then just imagine what Karma has in store for _you,_" I snap spitefully before I can stop myself.

_Shit_

I cover my mouth in astonishment, and I take a step back from him. His eyes widen a fraction, but so does his smile. The scars on his cheeks elongate and stretch, and I can't help but wonder if the action is painful.

"You, heh, you're just a lit-tle _spitfire_," he chuckles, sidling over to me.

"No wonder Mah-roni's pissed at you," Before I can run away, my jaw is in his hand, and his blade is against the corner of my mouth. I take a sharp intake of breath. My wide eyes meet his mischievously glinting ones.

"Oh don't-_tuh_ look so _serious_, Green Eyes," the Joker chides, delicately brushing my sweaty hair out of my face, "You should _smile_ more. I'm sure its brill-e-ant. Like mine!" he beams down at me, revealing his off-colour teeth. I whimper in fear, wanting to pull away, but not daring to.

"Do you thin-_kuh_ I'm gonna kill ya?" he whispers, putting his left cheek beside my right. I can feel the paint coming off him, and onto me. I nod; I'm _sure _he's going to kill me. I cringe when he lets out another hoot of amusement.

"Oh, no, no, no, _no!_ Not you, doll! Nope-_uh_," he releases me, pulling his face away. He flutters his hands to emphasize his words. I don't move though, or look away. I don't think he'd like that.

"See," he says conversationally, pocketing his knife, "I'm a ger-reat judge of character. And, I can just _tell_ you're, ah, you are gonna be so much more fun-_uh_ to have around ah-live, rather than dead-_uh_, yes?"

I chew my bottom lip nervously, unsure how to respond. He slides his hands into my hair, and forces my head to nod.

"So, I'm, uh, letting you go!" he exclaims gleefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet (I notice he's wearing really worn out brown loafers).

"_But,_" his voice lowers, "You _owe_ me, Green Eyes," he whispers huskily in my ear, his hot breath making me shiver. He makes me nod again, and giggles frantically before letting go of me. He shoves me away from him, a huge grin plastered on his painted face.

"Run along, little Mah-roni," he says with an elaborate wave of his hand.

He don't needa tell me twice.

I spin on my heel and book it down the rest of the hallway. Before I reach the door out of this hell hole, I hear him cackle after me, "I am a man who always cah-llects my _debts-suh,"_

_Aw crap_

**Ok, how'd I do. Was Jokey-poo in character? Tell me! What do you think of my oc? Is she a sue? And for the love of god, will you ever figure out the mystery of the impostress? Oh, what a world, what a world! **

**Reviews are appreciated, o'course. Til next time**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Heh, so, got more reviews *party dances like an awkward duck*, but less hits/visitors for the second chapter... Was the first one terrible and people didn't bother to read the next one? Or is it the summary?... ITS THE SUMMARY, ISN'T IT! Gah, those things suck, not only because it is difficult to summarize this because the whole point is that the reader isn't really meant to know whats going on, and I'm just not good at them *sobs***

**Anwhos, this chappy has .Scenes from the movie! TWO! Both with the Joker in them. I can tell you now, almost every chapter will have him in it in one way or the other. Oh yeah, and I tweaked one of the lines from the movie a smidgen, but I did it just cos it amused me.**

**Disclaimer: Okely Dokely, I dinna own the splendiferous movie known as the **_**Dark Knight, **_**nor Jokey-poo, Brucie, Alfred, Rachel Dawesey or Harvey-Harvey Dent.**

**This chapter dedicated to bandnerd2669 for her detailed review and advice. Thank you!**

**P.S this is the revised version. I was rereading this chapter and was horrified by the mistakes, so I fixed it up a little. If you spot anymore, please tell me.**

Chpt. 3** Amongst the fancy people**

_Demons are like obedient dogs- they come when they're called~ Remy de Gourmont_

So, I haven't stepped foot out of my apartment for over a week. Not since the whole _kidnapping_ incident. Also, I haven't been sleeping very well. I keep having dreams where every time I turn around I bump into something, and it explodes. Surprisingly though, no clown dreams. Not to say the clown didn't frighten me enough to make me dream of him.

Oh, he certainly did.

I can't get him out of my thoughts. His obnoxious, shrill laughter still resides in my ears; his ashen face always lingers behind my eye lids; the cool, smooth and terrifying feeling of his gloves on my skin is ever present. Sometimes photographic memory sucks. And, while I'd like to say, to think, to hope that I'll never see him again, I know I will. I'm not naive. He said I owe him.

I'm in his debt.

'_I am a man that always collects my debts'_

What will I have to forfeit? To give?

_Don't think about it_

I have more important things to do than think about a slightly gender confused clown. I say gender confused because he wore a _LOT_ of make-up.

_Don't think about it_

Right now I need to focus on how the hell I'm going to do my hair. There's a drawing in the Folder of how I'm supposed to look for tonight, but I can't figure out how to do it. I mean that hair...

Gah. This is why I'm not a fashionista. I'm too lazy, too useless and too shy. I search for a cheap, decent hair salon that won't ask questions or recognize Vianca Maroni. The last part I don't think I'll have to worry about much though. When she told me that hardly anyone in Gotham knew her, or had even heard of her, it was shocking. I had thought everyone in the world knew Vee.

There.

Booked an appointment with a certain Felicia at 'Carmono's Hair Care' downtown for five-thirty.

Now, I need my dress(s)...

_I don't wanna go outside_

The clown's gonna get me.

Ugh, no he's not. I'm being stupid. Crazy clown has better things to do than torture me with 'debts'. Besides, he has no idea where I live, although I wouldn't be surprised if he checked out Vianca's old penthouse.

_Shit_

Some of the 'Must Haves' are still there since Vinn and Carlisle (R.I.P jackasses) grabbed me, forcing me to leave them there. Urgh, I'll have to go back eventually and get them.

Whatever, I need to go to Peaches.

_Grab the gun grab the gun grab the gun_

After last week's ordeal, I promised myself I'd never leave or go anywhere without it. I was stupid for not having it on me before. Maybe if I had grabbed it then, I wouldn't be in a clown's debt.

But, I shan't dwell on the past, as Gramma had always told me. I grab my satchel, pop those god damn contacts in and head to Peaches.

~/~

Peaches is a lot more wily than I had given her credit for. Instead of asking this time if I'd like to go out for coffee, she instead made her own. And she kept re-filling my mug. The Folder didn't lie; the girl can talk. But, she makes beautiful dresses, and she is really very sweet.

By the time I get to the hair dressers, I only have three hours to get ready. So, I'm freaking out. I'll never have enough time to get back home and do my make-up and get ready. My hairdresser, a cute pixie-like girl named Felicia, seems to notice my distress and says, "Ah can do yer make-up, sweetie. Free ah charge," She has a sweet southern accent, which makes her even more cute. I thank her profusely, and show her the Folder's pictures so she'll know what to do. I'll change into my dress in the back room, and luckily I had thought to bring my shoes along in my satchel. Also, Felicia offered to hold onto the other dress and my clothes until tomorrow. It's kinda nice to know there are still decent people in the world.

Especially in a place like Gotham.

~/~

Felicia is doing the finishing touches on my make-up when another hairdresser, with green hair and dark eye shadow, yells, "Turn on channel six!"

Carmono, the owner, switches the channel of the TV hanging on the wall, and everyone turns to watch. Everybody gasps, their eyes widening as they stare at the screen. An image of a man- a dead man- in a rubber suit, complete with a cape, is being lowered to the ground. I bite the inside of my cheek when I realize his face is cut up in a Glasgow smile, and has paint all over it.

_Dear lord, don't let it be..._

On the screen the words '**Batman Dead?**' are written in bold letters. The anchor man, a Mike Engel or other, is saying, "... _Police released video footage concealed on the body. Sensitive viewers be aware: it is disturbing,"_

The screen cuts to a man- the same that was being lowered- tied to a chair, clearly beaten, sitting in a fluorescent lit room. Off screen a voice can be heard, "_Tell them your name,_" The man, sounding exhausted and terrified, answers weakly, " Brian Douglas,"

"_Are you the REAL Batman?_" the other voice asks, his voice mocking and patronizing.

"No,"

"_No?"_ the other man's in disbelief, but giggling.

"No,"

Still giggling, the other man, who will still can't be seen, asks harshly, "_Then why do you dress like him?"_ he rips the mask off Brian, and waves it at the camera, laughing.

"He's a symbol of hope," Brian speaks up, more courage in his voice, "That we don't have to be afraid of scum like you,"

Becoming condescendingly high pitched again, the other man says, "_Yeah, you do,"_ he grabs Brian's face roughly, continuing in a deeper voice, "_You really do. Huh? Yeeeeah," _ Brian, losing his courage, begins to whimper, and a purple clad hand- _oh god_- reaches out and stroke Brian's face roughly, crooning, "_Oh, shh-shh-shh,"_ then he slaps Brian's cheeks lightly, continuing conversationally, "_So you think Batman has made Gotham a better place? Hm?"_ Brian nods frantically, his face down. Lightly, the other man says, " _Look at me," _

Brian disobeys.

"**LOOK. AT. ME**!"

Everyone, I mean _everyone_, here, in their houses, on the streets, all who's watching, jump. Never in my life have I heard a more petrifying, a more angry , a more demonic voice. I doubt anyone here has heard anything more horrifying in their life either.

I know who this is.

I'm pretty sure so does everyone else.

Brian hesitantly looks up, terrified out of his mind. There's a pause, then the camera crackles as it swings around, the screen blurring momentarily. A collective sharp intake of breath sounds out as the image clears. The Joker pushes his face into the camera lens.

"You see, this is how cer-aaaaazy Batman's made Gotham," the Joker exclaims, his voice shaking with laughter. I scan the room; most people are shaking and deathly pale, like me. But the girl with the green hair, who had been the one who said to turn this on, is staring at the screen in awe. A fan, I suppose.

_This city is fucking messed up_

"You. Want. _Order _in Gotham?" the Joker intones, more serious now, licking his lips, "Then Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in-_uh_," he nods to himself, practically shaking with excitement.

"Oh," he adds, bringing the camera closer to his face, " And every day he doesn't. People. Will. _Die. _Star-ting tonight," licks his lips again and his mouth fills the screen, blood red and pouty.

"I'm a man of my woooord-_uh_," he flashes a grin, then laughs that crazed, piercing cackle that has been in my head for the past week. He drops the camera, and right before the screen becomes fuzz, all that can be heard is the laughter... And _screams_.

There's a pregnant silence.

Then one of the women lets out a sob, and runs out of the building. Another seems to dry heave. Beside me, Felicia has her manicured hand over her mouth, her face as pale as a sheet and her eyes bubbling over with tears. This, even amidst my own horror strikes me as odd; I would've thought in a place like Gotham that the people would have stronger stomachs

~/~

"You look beautiful, Miss Carmens." Felicia gushes as I stand in front of the full length mirror. Now, don't get excited. 'Carmens' isn't my last name, it's just one of the many aliases the Folder gave me. I have a card and everything. 'Marjorie Carmens' it says. Born June 1985 ( not my real birthday; off two years and several months ), currently living in New York, New York ( Nope nope nope ), green eyes and blond hair ( the only thing that's true ). It's really authentic too. I have like five others back at my apartment. My favourite is Brunhilda Shvenson , but I'll probably never use it.

"Thank you," I say quietly, not really paying attention to her, because I can't take my eyes off my image. I know, that sounds terrible, but truly I can't. I don't look like me anymore.

I look like Vianca.

Veronica Lake's classic 'Peek-a-boo' hairstyle makes my hair bouncy, shiny, voluminous and ever so Vianca-like. It took over an hour to do; the hairstyle is more difficult to do than it looks, so I have no idea how Vianca managed to do it every time she went out.

Classic, 40's makeup; a pinkie-red lipstick with the top lip slightly exaggerated; young and coyly flirty. A swipe of mascara to add a Bambi-like affect, and a muted, light grey eyeshadow to make a subtle smoky eye that brings out the caramel in my eyes. And eventually the gold in my contacts.

The dress is so classic Veronica Lake. In fact, it looks exactly like the dress she wore in this one picture I found on Google. A dark indigo ball gown, that was probably controversial back in the forties, since the deep V-neck goes almost down to her's (and my) navel. Thank god for double sided tape. The material is lacy and when light shines on it, it shines subtly, giving it the affect of a sparkly night sky. Luckily, to compensate for the amount of cleavage, it is a full length ball gown, so it goes down to my ankles. I lift one of my brows, just like Veronica Lake does in the picture where she's wearing this dress. The only real difference between Veronica's dress and this dress is that Veronica's was black. Vee would never be caught dead in black. She lived for colour. Plus, indigo looks good with her (our) hair and complexion.

On my feet are vintage brown spectator heels, which set off the blue in the indigo dress. Indigo is actually my favourite colour. When I was a girl I couldn't decide if blue or purple was my favourite colour, so I made a compromise. Indigo. It's truly the perfect mixture of two individually pretty colours, making a new, beautiful colour.

_Fuck, I'm getting all poetic_

The finishing touch to my outfit is the necklace around my neck, the locket resting just above the space between my breasts. Seeing it looking so natural on me brings tears to my eyes. This is Vianca most loved possession. The locket is shaped like a teardrop and made of pure platinum. Inside there isn't actually a picture, because Vee thought that would be tacky. But engraved on the front's surface are the words '_La morte mi trovera vivo'_ , which translates from Italian into '_Death will find me alive', _the Maroni family proverb. All the members have some trinket that has the saying on it. The trinket is given to children on their thirteenth birthday by their parents, or to the bride on their honeymoon if they marry into the Maroni family. Vee's mother had a ring, her father had a chalice, and Sal has a watch. When I found it in the Folder the day I discovered it, all those months ago, I had cried for hours. Right now the image of it spilling out of the Folder keeps replaying in my head.

"Ah no, miss, don't crah , yah'll ruin yer' makeup," Felicia cries, quickly wiping at the tears, lest I ruin my eye makeup and the light blush that's dusted subtly on my cheekbones.

"Sorry, sorry," I mutter, fanning at my eyes. I check the clock and sigh. Yup, I'm late, which isn't good. Vianca isn't into being late.

"_It just isn't classy and certainly isn't fashionable, darlin',"_

Vianca didn't ever feel that to be noticed at an event that you need a grand, late entrance. I knew it wouldn't matter when she shows up, that she'll be noticed anyways. She always knew that too.

"Thank you so much, Felicia. You're a miracle worker," I smile genuinely at her, happy I don't have to do a 'Vianca Smile' since I'm not her right now. Felicia blushes, which makes her even cuter, if that's possible.

"Mah pleasure, miss. Actually, Ah really enjoyed it. In this city, all the women ever want is tah get a trim. This was so much mah fun," Felicia admits, blushing some more. . I nod, completely understanding her. The only women in this city who has hair that actually stands out are the ones that are on the news. Even the rich don't do their hair all fancy- like unless they are going to an event.

"You did an amazing job. I look exactly like the sketches," I'm not just being nice; I'm a double of the Folder's sketches. Right down to the last sparkly, silver pinkie nail.

"You're sure I can leave my stuff over night?" I ask, stepping away from the mirror again, glancing at my bag and my discarded clothes in the corner of the back room of the salon. Felicia chews her salmon coloured lips (_are they naturally like that or is that some kind of awesome lipstick?_), thinking.

"Might be better if ya jus' gave it tah me tah hold til 'amorrow," she suggests.

"Could you?"

"'Course,"

"That's awfully nice of you, 'specially since we just met today,"

"Case ya haven't nahticed, miss, ah got that southern hospitality thing goin' fah me," Felicia smiles quirkily. I snicker a little, thank her several more times, then finally make my leave, but not before popping in the contacts and putting on the 'beauty mark'.

~/~

By the time I make it to the impressive hotel, it's almost nine. I broke down and took a cab here, 'cause I couldn't bear the thought of my dress being ruined if I rode the subway or bus. Luckily the cabbie didn't seem to work for the mob, and if he did, he didn't recognize 'Vianca Maroni'. Walking across the street, I spot Vianca's hotel and eye her penthouse. Perhaps tonight can be a double whammy; be amongst the fancy people then scurry back to Vee's place and gather the discarded 'Must Haves'.

It's convenient that rich people all seem to coop near each other.

I hate elevators, but the stairs would take forever and probably cause me to disintegrate my dress with all the sweating I would be doing. Now, I'm a fit person (ran track during school and have pretty much kept up running) but for some goddamned reason stairs wind me in seconds. So, the elevator it is. See I have this thing called Cleithrophobia, which is similar to Claustrophobia except rather than disliking tight places, I dislike being in confined places. I hate the sensation of not having the option of leaving an area. So I hate airplanes and boats and long car rides, bus rides and train rides. I know you can easily get out of an elevator and you aren't normally in one for too long, but what if there is a malfunction and its stops and you're trapped? Hasn't happened to me yet but you never know.

The elevator dings, indicating I've reached the top floor. I take a deep breath through my nose, and put on the 'Vianca Smile' which I think I've almost mastered. The elevators doors slide open and with maybe a little flourish ('cause Vee would put on a bit of a show) I step out slowly, pausing to dazzle the other guests, and quickly scan the room. I almost panic when I realize I actually _have _dazzled the guests and there all staring. I hide my unease my sauntering further into the penthouse, which is actually bigger than Vianca's. A waiter comes over to me and I suspect he'll probably want to see my invitation; he's old so he's probably crotchety and stern. Luckily, I have the invitation in my silver wristlet. It had been in Vee's mailbox last week when I went over there and luckily I had put in my boot before I got kidnapped.

"Welcome, miss," the waiter greeted me in a smooth, kind English accent, "Care for a little liquid courage? Not that you need it of course," he winks at me, catching me off guard.

_Not crotchety at all_

I smile coyly and take a glass of bubbly off the tray he's carrying. I'm not supposed to drink (the Folder is a party-pooper) but I can't deny this charming Englishman. Plus, European accents have always turned me to mush.

"Thank you," I say, using the sing-song voice that mimics the way Vee talks naturally.

"Might I say, you put Veronica Lake to shame tonight, miss," he says smoothly, flashing an almost cheeky smile. I grin delightedly.

"I'm glad you recognize the inspiration for my outfit, mister, um-"

"Alfred, miss. And I am big fan of madam Lake's. A pity no one seems to know who she is anymore," Alfred says with regret.

"Yes. A real pity that names like Snooki and Kim Kardashian are bigger in today's society rather than Elizabeth Tyler or Veronica Lake." I agree. He nods, smiling.

"I'm sorry, miss, but other guests are sober and we simply cannot have that so I best be serving them. Enjoy your evening, miss," Alfred says, taking my hand and kissing it. I can't help it. I blush.

_God, I love Englishmen_

"Thank you, Alfred," I give him one last enchanting smile and he winks before intermingling with the rest of the guests. I sip at my drink, not bothering to mingle. The people I need to see will come to me. The other people (except maybe Englishman Alfred) don't matter.

In a little while, after I've drained the contents of my glass, I hear a voice behind me exclaim, "Vianca! You made it!"

I turn to see Rachel Dawes walking toward me, looking charming in her dark green dress. Upon closer inspection though, I see she looks weathered and tired. I 're-read' what the Folder says about her in my head.

'_Rachel and I met at dance camp when I was twelve. She was five years older than me but didn't like the kids there her own age so we became friends. We both were good at jazz and ballet, but we secretly loved hip-hop. The camp didn't have a hip-hop class, so we made our own. It was a stay away camp, so we told whoever was interested to sneak out past curfew and come learn hip-hop. At the end of the summer, the 'campers' are supposed to all perform a dance routine for the parents. The counsellors were VERY surprised when none of the dancers were dancing jazz or ballet. Rachel and I and the rest of the camp had made our own routine, all hip-hop, and a little crumping in there. When we realized we both lived in Gotham, we decided to stay in touch. The last few years have been a little rocky since she became a lawyer, and started to become involved in my family's business, but since I was never involved with the mob aspect of the Maroni family, we were able to remain friends. Try and score an invite to one of Bruce Wayne's (bleh) events so you can talk to her and her squeeze Harvey, since they'll both be there._

_Keep in mind: Rachel is fiercely loyal, passionate about her job and never backs down, even though it tends to get her in trouble._

_Good luck, darlin xo'_

"Rachel, you look amazing, hon," I greet her, embracing her, trying to hide how awkward I feel. I'm really not much of a hugger.

"Not nearly as amazing as you. I see your obsession for the forties hasn't dwindled while at school," she teases, smiling. Her face transforms when she smiles. The worry and stress in it disappears and she looks younger. I see why Harvey Dent loves her. And, why Bruce Wayne secretly pants after her. Vee had told me that Rachel confides in her about her issues with Wayne. Because of it, Vee was never a fan of Bruce, because of all the grief he has caused her friend. I myself cannot yet form an opinion of the man since I've never met him. But the sketch of him in the Folder tells me he's a sexy little rich boy, but the blurb tells me he's a douchey little rich boy too.

"Never. She will always be my muse," I reply, grabbing another drink 'cause lord I will need it.

"I was worried you weren't going to show. I tried to contact your school but there must be something wrong with the system because they said that you don't go there,"

"Yeah, they need to fix that," I murmur, hoping she hasn't caught on or is suspicious.

"So I sent one to your apartment but you never RSPV'ed so I assumed you wouldn't show,"

"What, and finally be invited to one of Wayne's infamous shindigs?" I say dryly, because remember, 'I' hate him. Rachel laughs, and the sound suits her so much that I feel sad that she probably hardly does it anymore.

"Plus, I wanna see your little boy toy. Where is Harvey?" I grin, scanning the room. I see him talking to Alfred, looking nervous, which I find adorable.

"Oh, I ditched him and left him at the mercy of Gotham's elite," Rachel waves to him, and he waves back, motioning desperately for her to come save him. She smiles teasingly and shakes her head no at him. Watching them, I see that they love each other, and for some reason, that makes me happy. I don't actually know these people, but if Vee knows and loves them, they must be decent.

"I'm going to go see Harvey. I'll meet up with you later," I kiss her cheek and she does the same before going and speaking to an elder couple. I skirt over to where Harvey is standing awkwardly, gulping down a drink.

"Slow down, tiger, Wayne hasn't even arrived yet to give you one of his famous speeches," I say playfully, taking the empty glass from him. He looks surprised to see me.

"Vianca! I didn't know you were coming. This isn't really your scene," He says, but he's smiling boyishly. He has a great smile; no wonder he's captured Gotham's heart, what with those ruffled blond locks, and his warm blue eyes. Just looking at him makes my knees want to turn to water. I 'read' the blurb about him in my head:

'_Harvey and I met at Rachel's twenty-second birthday party, long before they ever even considered dating. They went to the same law school, and were only acquaintances. I fell in love with him instantly. I was only seventeen and he was twenty five, but got him good and drunk and took him home with me. He was my first (and even drunk he was great). He was pretty upset when he woke up in the morning, and even more upset when he found out how old I was. He told me that we couldn't see each other, but I begged to be at least friends (back then I was a little more desperate and I fancied myself in love). He agreed and we've been friends ever since. Now he'll do anything for me. I got over my love for him and was happy when He and Rachel started dating. I still love him, but more as a brother, since heaven knows the one I have never treats me like a sister._

_Things to keep in mind: I suspect that the only reason why he said we should be friends is the age thing, and that he still has a soft spot for me, as more than friends. Also I did him a favour awhile ago and he still owes me. Use that to your advantage. Also, he's ruthless when it comes to his job, but he's really a sweetheart, although he does have a temper and bit of a violent streak._

_Good luck darlin', xo'_

"Actually, I came to see you," I say flirtatiously, but I hope the look in my eyes tells him I mean it. He lifts a blond brow and I lean toward him to whisper in his ear.

"Can we go somewhere private. I need to ask you a favour,"

He looks at me with an unsure expression, and I add, " Remember, Harv. You still owe me,"

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then takes my arms and leads me to a bedroom.

~/~

"Harvey? Harvey where are you? You better not be hiding from our guests," Rachel calls out from another room. Harvey and I are sitting on a bed. I search his face and I get a funny feeling in my gut when I see the hollowness and sadness in his eyes.

"Are you sure about this, Vee?" he asks softly. I nod.

"Yes, Harv. It's the only way,"

" I could protect you," he whispers fervently, gathering my hands in his.

"No, Harvey. I can't just live out my life being scared and depending on someone else for my safety. You know me better than that," those words I did not make up. The Folder gave me many scenarios of how this conversation is going to go, and I memorized all the lines I could possibly use.

"Harvey!" Rachel calls again.

"Please, Harvey," I say earnestly, "Will you do this for me?"

"I could get in a lot of trouble for it Vee," he warns, but I know he doesn't actually care.

"Harvey Dent has _never _been afraid of trouble," I smile like Vianca at him, and I must have been off because he looks at me strangely.

_Shit, don't look too close_

He looks away (_thank god_) and sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Alright, Vee. I'll help you. I'll give you a call-"

"No, I'll contact you," I say quickly and he gives me another odd look.

"We should get back to the party," I say quietly, pulling my hands from his and standing. He nods and follows me out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later everyone turned to the windows as a helicopter landed outside on the terrace. This, of course, is Mr. Wayne. I pretend to be bored and indifferent but inside I'm straining to get a better look at the famous, brooding billionaire. He steps out of the helicopter, looking simply dapper in his expensive suit. My already low respect for the (all of which gathered by reputation) plummets as he helps not one, not two but _three_ scantily clad women out of the copter. There all very pretty, but the smug smiles on their faces make me sneer at them.

Finally!

I can sneer at some bimbos!

I look over and see Rachel doesn't look impressed, but that Harvey does.

Men will be men.

Bruce Wayne strolls in, his bimbos in tow. People gather round, knowing he's about to give one of his famous obnoxious speeches

"Sorry I'm late. Glad you started without me," he begins, smiling charmingly at the crowd. Yep, obnoxious. Still, he does have a certain charm to him...

"Now, where is Harvey?" he scans the crowd and Harvey steps forward, looking bashful.

"Ah, Harvey Dent," Wayne says when he spots Harvey, "The man of the hour. And where's Rachel Dawes?" Rachel steps forward, her expression sour and her arms crossed over her chest.

"Rachel is my oldest friend," the Playboy continues, "You know, when she told me she was dating Harvey Dent, I had one thing to say..." Pause for dramatic effect, "The guy from those god awful campaign commercials?" the crowd laughs, and I smile a little at Harvey's embarrassed expression. The smile widens a little at Rachel's peeved expression. I can't help but find this situation to be entertaining.

"'I believe in Harvey Dent'. Yeah, nice slogan Harvey," he gives Harvey a thumbs up, and the crowd laughs some more.

"But, it got Rachel's attention," Wayne voices in a more sincere, genuine tone, "But then I started paying attention to Harvey, and all he's been doing as our new D.A, and you know what? I believe in Harvey Dent. On his watch Gotham can feel a little safer. A little more optimistic. Look at his face," he points to Harvey and everyone turns to him. I swear Harvey blushes.

"He is the face of Gotham's bright future... So get out your chequebooks," Wayne finishes in his oh so charming way and the crowd cheers and toasts to Harvey. I'll admit it, I like the speech. It was genuine and real but still has the obnoxious playboy flavour to it. Of course I am a sap for these kinds of things.

A little later I spot Wayne stepping out onto the terrace, and soon after Rachel joins him. They speak to each other, and I can tell by her body language Rachel isn't happy with him. I turn my back on them. This is none of my business. I look at the clock and decide I'll talk to Rachel and Harvey (and perhaps Englishman Alfred) one last time then make my leave. Rachel comes stomping back into the room and Harvey takes her arm and leads her into another room to talk privately. Jeezus, that champagne went right through me. Hopefully Harvey and Rachel will be done talking by the time I'm finished. I wash my hands then go back into the main area to seek out Harvey and Rachel. I don't see them.

What happens next all goes by _very_ fast.

I hear the ding of the elevator, then freeze as someone exclaims.

"We made it!"

_Oh lord no..._

I turn slowly and jump as a gun is fired into the ceiling. The Joker and his band of merry clowns stride into the room, pointing their guns at the terrified guests. I duck behind the other guests as they back away from the clowns, making a wide semi circle around the leader. The Joker is smiling widely as he scans the crowd, sauntering toward one of the buffet tables. In his hand is a semi-automatic.

"Good ev-ah-ning lay-dies and gen-til-men," his strange, erratic voice rings out, " _We_ are tonight's entertainment!" he grabs some shrimp, smacking his lips as he chews it.

"I only have _one_ question," the Joker announces, his mouth still full of food, "Where. Is. Harvey Dent-_uh_?" He pauses, his pupils rolling upward to stare at the ceiling before trailing them over the crowd.

No one answers.

Where the fuck did Harvey and Rachel go? Hopefully there hiding. And, where'd Wayne go?

The Joker sighs a little, but wanders over to some of the guests, prodding them with his gun, asking, "You know where he is? No? How 'bout you? Do you know where Harvey is?" He grabs a drink from a woman and brings it so quickly to his red mouth that by the time it reaches his lips, the liquid has been mostly flung out.

"I need something from him, something little," the Joker nanners on, sidling to more guests. He stops across the room from me, so his back is turned from me, which I'm grateful for. I don't want him to spot me, and demand I 'repay' him.

"Yanno, I'll settle for his loved ones," He says, nodding at an older gentleman, this time grabbing an olive and popping it in his mouth.

"We aren't intimidated by thugs," I hear the old man say from across the room. The Joker seems to pause and leans toward him. I can't see his facial expression, but I can't imagine its pleasant.

"You know," the Joker says slowly, banging his gun onto the table and rummaging in one of his pockets.

_Oh Jeezus_

"You remind me of my father," he pauses again and nods a little, then everyone gasps as he lunges forward, and from what I can see, he has the man's face in his hands and a knife to his mouth.

"_I hated my father," _the Joker snarls.

"Okay, stop," the unmistakable voice of Rachel Dawes rings out and she steps from goddamned nowhere into the funny little semi circle the guests have made.

_Ho shit_

The Joker's hunched shoulders lift and fall in an irritated sigh that someone has interrupted him. He glances over his shoulder, his scraggly hair hanging around his painted face. He spots Rachel and blinks, then smiles a little when he recognizes her.

_Oh here we go_

The Folder did tell me she tends to find trouble for herself.

The Joker spins around and stares at her, his blood red mouth making an 'O' of mock surprise.

"Well heh-_lloo_ beautiful," he drawls in a tone that might have meant to be charming or seductive, but is completely perverse coming from him. He pretends to fix his hair, coming toward her with a bounce in his step. Rachel doesn't back down; she stares defiantly.

"You must be Harvey's new squa-weeze, hm?" he clenches his fists when he says 'squeeze'. He points his switchblade at her and says in a huskier voice, "And you _are_ beautiful," He's upon her now, and circles around her, getting in her personal space. His body language is so intimidating, so feral that I don't know how Rachel can stand it. She doesn't seem to be able to because she's cringing and her arms are wrapped tightly around her chest. The clown circles back to face her, and studies her face, licking his lips.

"Oh, you look nervous," he states in high voice, and leans toward her, saying quietly, "Is it the scars?" the only reason I can see this exchange is because I'm hiding behind a dude that is at the front of the little crowd, and he's standing almost directly behind the Joker and Rachel.

"Wanna know how I get 'em?" He nods a little and lifts his hands, seeming to hesitate a moment to figure out how to go about doing what he wants next, before he lashes out and grasps Rachel's face in one of his hands.

"C'mere," he doesn't say it angrily or cruelly, rather quietly and maybe a little chidingly. Rachel tries to twist away but his grip is too strong.

"Hey. Look at me," he forces her face toward his, and he licks his lips reverently, holding the knife to her face.

"So, I hadda wife. Beautiful- like _you_- who tells me I _worry _too much," he pauses for effect, keeping a good grip on Rachel's cheeks to ensure she'll look at him, " Who tells me I oughta _smile_ more... Who _gambles _and gets in _deep_ with the sharks," His voice deepens a couple octaves as the story becomes more intense. Rachel tries to get out of his hold but he savagely jerks her face back to him with an admonishing "Hey".

"One day," he looks up, then back at Rachel and from where I stand I can see the dangerous glint in those dark eyes, "They _carve_ her face up. We have no money for surgery," his voice is becoming filled with emotion. Close by me, two clowns are talking, saying something like "This story's different from the one he told Gambol,"

_Hmm..._

"She can't _take it_!" he cries, his voice raw with sorrow, "I just wanted to see her _smile_ again, hm? I just wanted her to know I didn't _care _about the _scars_. So, I stick a _razor_ in my mouth, and do _this_," he pulls his face back a little and rolls his head, giving Rachel and excellent view of his scars as he licks them.

"And ya know what? She can't _stand _the sight of me!" his voice is thick with grief, "She _leaves _me," his tone changes again to angry and spiteful.

"_Now_ I see the _funny_ side," another voice change to glee, "Now I'm _always_ smiling,"

Rachel finally takes some initiative and slugs the Joker in the gut. He utters "oof" as the air is momentarily knocked out of him and bends over, releasing her. But he's laughing.

"A little fight in ya," he says, waving a finger. He straightens and adjusts his lapels, stating gravelly , "I _like_ that," and prepares to lunge for her before another voice beside him says,

"Then you'll love me,"

_HOLY SHIT_

When the _fuck _did the Batman get here?

I don't dwell on the thought as the Bat tackles the Clown. I grab Rachel and pull her out of the way. She's looking wide-eyed, and to put it bluntly, scared shitless. She's staring at the Batman as the Joker shoves a couple of his lackeys at him, laughing delightedly.

"Rachel, is Harvey okay?" I demand. She manages a nod. She gasps and I turn to see the Joker kicking the Batman savagely , a knife protruding from the toe of his shoe.

_That devious little..._

The guests are going nuts. Screaming and scrambling around, trying to find a way out but armed clowns are blocking all the exits. I turn back to the tussle and see the Batman knock the Joker away and take out another goon. The Joker gets back to his feet, unfazed and smiling deliriously. He scans the panicking crowd, and his eyes land on my general area. More specifically, the dazed Rachel Dawes.

_Oh no_

I grab Rachel's wrist and begin dragging her through the crowd. Rachel screams suddenly, and she's wrenched out of my hold, and dragged away by the painted clown. He slings a purple arm around her neck, a gun to her head. This gets the Bat's attention. Rachel, her face filled with fear is pulling at his arm and trying to squirm out of his hold, but the clown is stronger than her.

"Drop the gun," the Batman orders hoarsely.

"Oh sure, just take _off_ the mask and show us all who you _really _are," the Joker swings his other arm back and shoots the window behind them, and drags Rachel through. He then proceeds to dangle her out the window. I rush to the window beside the shattered one, praying he won't drop her.

"Let her go," the Batman growls, taking an intimidating step toward the clown. The Joker squints one eye at him, furrowing his brow.

_He did not just say that..._

"Very poor choice of words," he says seriously, then cackles and drops Rachel. I press myself against the window as Rachel screams and Batman dives after her. When the Joker leaps out of the way of the Batman when he lunges after Rachel, guess who he knocks into?

_Fuck my life_

**First cliff hanger! Sho, vas everyvone in character? did you hate the change in brucies speech I made? Did I get both movie scenes right? Oh, btw, if you didn't know, last chapters scene with the clown and my girl was after the mob meeting. You know how the Joker just like books it outta there? Yeah, that was my inspiration for this fic. I love that part in the movie. **_**Run clown Run!**_ (i don't own Forrest Gump)

**Ok, so some of you may think the mention of Rachel dancing hip-hop and crumping is ooc, but that was kinda what I was going for. I thought it would be amusing to imagine stuck up, prim little rachy busting a move and popping and locking.**

**Ehm, right, so reviews are VERY appreciated, might get me through summatives and exams, Yanno? So, drop me a line, woulda? **

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Okely dokely, so I'll admit that I'm a little sad that I have only a few reviews, but yanno, you can't please everyone, right? But, if it is that you all think this story is garbage, I'd appreciate you informing me and telling me **_**why**_** it is, so I can make some changes. Regardless, though, I will continue this because I myself really enjoy writing it.**

**Anywho, enough griping. On with the show! Btw, just in case you're wondering, I imagine my oc to look like January Jones, just with smokey-green/caramel eyes and longer/darker hair. Also, I attempted to put pics of my oc's dress and January Jones on my profile, but I got confused and gave up so the magical site called **_**Google**_** will provide you with images. Type in 'January Jones Mad men' (the best pics come from those pages) and 'Veronica Lake evening gown' an its the dark, kinda sheer one with the real low neckline, and in the picture Miss Lake has an eyebrow raised.**

**Disclaimer: WHAT? I **_**don't **_**own TDK? Wow... bummer **

Chpt 4**. Repaid**

'_A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong it is until it's in hot water'~ Eleanor Roosevelt_

_... Shit_

I, as I fall to the ground, mentally prepare myself for another bump to my noggin. However, it never happens. Instead, a pair of hands cradle my head, taking the brunt of the fall. Unfortunately, the Joker, when we land, crushes his full weight on me. It surprises me, though, that he has fast enough reflexes to protect my head.

_Protect?_

This guy has _got_ to stop bumping into me.

"We've _got_ to stop-_uh_ bumping into each other like this-_suh_," the Joker voices my thoughts, his laughs coming out in breathless little puffs.

"Ungh," is all I can manage. Yes, my head has not suffered again, but the rest of me hurts from the collision and the fall. The Joker pulls his hands out from under my head and puts them at either side of my head, ands lifts weight off to hover over me. He's smirking at me, his green hair curtaining around his pallid face.

"Hello _Mizz_ Mah-roni," he greets me cheekily. I raise my brow at him, folding my hands over my chest, so my boobs won't be too exposed.

"Evening," I reply, deadpan. He giggles a little, licking his lips excitedly.

"Ready to, ah, _pay me back-uh?_" he asks giddily, nodding his head feverishly.

"Do I have a choice?" I mutter, sighing a little.

"Nope-_puh_," he pops the 'P' and snickers, standing then hoisting me onto my feet. I wobble a little and he grabs my arm, swinging me around and pressing my back to his chest, a gun against my temple. I shudder and take a deep breath.

_Guess I'm officially a human shield_

"It's real-ly quite-_tah_ simple," he says into my ear, "Just stay in front of me and, uh, hope we don't get shot-_tuh_ at, yes?" I nod, gulping.

"Good girl," he coos against my hair, moving the gun from my temple to my back, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He prods me forward with the gun, and the guests part like the red sea as we make our way through the room. His men, the small amount he has left that aren't knocked out, follow after us. We reach the elevator, and I spot Englishman-Alfred nearby, a fretful and sad expression on his face.

_Looks like I made a friend_

The Joker turns us back to face the crowd and hoots, "You all havva lovely evening!" then his men shoot at them. I jump and attempt to break away, but the Joker pulls me back and drags me into the elevator. The rest of the men file into the elevator and I tremble as the doors slide close.

_Cleithrophobia_

The ride down is immensely awkward. The Joker keeps his arm slung around my shoulders, his gun hanging lazily in his hand, close to my collar bones. His other hand is stuffed in his pocket, and I'm not looking forward to it coming out, since it'll likely bring a knife with it. The Joker and I are squished at the back of the elevator, his men standing in front of us.

We're like sardines.

Cliché, but true.

Also, they all keep staring at me. I can't see their faces but they are all turned to me. I frown disapprovingly at them, but they don't stop, so I stare up at the ceiling uneasily. The annoying, cheery elevator music doesn't help with the tension _at all_.

I let out a breath of relief as the elevators doors open when we reach the bottom floor. The clowns flood out, their weapons raised. Police officers have swarmed the lobby of the hotel. The Joker, myself in tow, push our way to the front of the clowns. The officers lower their guns when they spot me.

"Officers, you're ru-in-ing our grand-_duh_ exit," the Joker pretends to pout.

"Now, you all seem-_uh_ like _honourable_ men, and I am _sure_ you don't want to see, ah, see this pretty lil' miss get hurt-_uh_. Hm?" He puts the gun to my temple again, and I suppose I should probably play the part of the terrified hostage. I allow some tears and a pleading expression but surprisingly I'm really not all that afraid. Not like my last run-in with the clown. I can't explain why but right now I'm simply nervous and anxious, not scared out of my mind. I look down at the locket around my neck.

'_Death will find me alive'_

Maybe the locket has the power to give the wearer confidence... Or I've just had too many drinks.

I'm guessing I'm just a little buzzed.

I notice, while lost in my head, we have actually made our way out of the hotel, and the officers aren't following. My acting must have been pretty convincing. We turn into an alley and parked in it is a white van. The clowns pile into the van, but the Joker and I walk past it.

"Oy, boss! You not comin?" one of the clowns yells.

"I'll, ah, I'll meet up with you boys-_zuh_ _later,_" the Joker calls over his shoulder, chuckling to himself. The Joker adjusts his hold on me, pulling me beside him instead of in front, slithering an arm around my waist. Behind us I hear the whine of a faulty engine, and the perplexed shouts of the men. And, the incoming sirens.

That's when I realize the Joker wants his men to be taken by the police. Why though? Isn't he afraid they'll betray his whereabouts, and won't he need to hire more?

"They, ah, they're re-place-ah-ble," the Joker tells me, reading my thoughts

"And _disposable_," he adds darkly. I shiver a little, goosebumps racing down my arms and neck. We turn a corner and there waiting for us is a sleek, black limo. Not one of those obnoxious long ones, but one of those more tasteful, smaller ones. I risk a glance at him, and flinch when I see he's staring at me, smiling. A man, wearing a cabbie hat and looking very nervous, jumps out of the car and opens the door for us. The Joker shoves me in, then climbs in, taking the seat opposite of me. The chauffeur closes the door and rushes back to the driver's seat and starts the car. There's a black screen, blocking our view of the driver. For privacy, I suppose.

The Joker reaches up ad clicks something, and the limo fills with a dim light. He sighs, relaxing into his seat and puts the gun in his coat, then rests his arms on the back of his seat. I fidget uncomfortably, looking out the window as we pull out of the alley.

"Did you have a nice time?" the Joker asks out of the blue.

"Huh?" the random, conversational question catches me off guard and I turn my face to look at him. His war paint is messy from wear and, I'm sure, sweat. His acidic hair is clinging to his face, and looks like it needs a good wash. The black around his eyes is more like gray now, and the red on his lips has turned pink. His scars are as red as ever though. Also, I notice he's twirling a knife around his fingers. That's never good.

"Did you have a nice time at the fund-ah-raiser?" he repeats, licking his lips, his eyes oddly intense.

"Yes, until you threw my friend out the window,"

Whoa.

Where did _that_ come from?

A grin splits his face and he bends toward me. I lean back.

"You friendly-like with Dent-_uh's_ girl?" he inquires, his eyes glinting devilishly.

_Oh great, I bet now he wants to use me to get to Rachel and Harvey. Fantastic_

I swallow audibly, and nod. He looks satisfied, and leans closer to me, his face full with a twisted kind of glee.

"So, you were a little, ah, _upset_ when I gave her some fer-esh air?" he jokes, putting three fingers under my chin to raise my face closer to his.

"Yes," I answer, not bothering to tell him that that was a lot more 'fresh air' than she or anyone needs.

"My ah-pologies, Gre-" he stops mid-sentence, his brow creasing and his eyes narrowing.

_What's he..._

He lunges for my arms, and I yelp as I'm pulled roughly into his lap, facing him. He doesn't miss a beat as he crushes my face in his hands and pulls our faces very, _very_ close together. So close that our noses squish together. His grip on me keeps me on his lap, as he analyzes my face closely. Then I see he is staring mainly at my eyes. His eyes are darting from the one to the other.

_Why's he..._

Oh fuck.

Jeezus, I forgot all about the contacts!

_I'm screwed_

His face curls with rage and he hurls me from him. I crash into my previous seat across from him, shouting in pain as my side hits the seat. I look back at the Joker, my eyes wide. He's breathing heavily as he searches though his pockets.

_This is it_

But, instead of a knife like I thought, he pulls out a little handheld mirror and throws it at me.

"_Take them out_!" he roars at me. I flinch and begin to shake, but pick up the mirror, glancing at him warily. I lift it to my eyes and carefully take out the blue contacts. Once they are out, I blink several times to moisten my eyes, and turn my eyes back to the Joker. He outstretches his palm and I reluctantly place the contacts in his purple hand. He opens the window and tosses them out. I open my mouth to protest but close it again at the look he shoots me.

We stare at each other for a good minute, neither of us moving or saying a word. After a while, he sighs. I don't know of this is a good thing or a bad thing. He looks down, shaking his head. He looks back up and the anger is gone from his face. In its place is a sardonic little smile. He slowly reaches out, like he doesn't want to spook me, and takes my chin in his hand. He shuffles to the edge of his seat and he gazes into my eyes.

"There's those green eyes," he murmurs, his voice a lower pitch than usual. I blink at him, unsure what to do or say. Out of the corner of my eye I see the car door is unlocked.

_Escape plan #2..._

I _really_ need to stop being kidnapped.

"Are you going to let me go?" I ask softly. My buzz from the champagne had officially left when he threw me onto the seat. Now fear, and a determination to get away are the primary emotions rolling through me. The Joker doesn't answer me, but remains staring at my face, his features oddly expressionless. He lifts the other hand that isn't on my face, and for a moment I think he's going to hit me. Instead, he bites his pointer finger, and proceeds to pull off the purple glove with his teeth, spitting it onto the car floor. I frown when he licks his thumb.

_Why'd he..._

I squeak in surprise as his moistened thumb begins the rub at the skin under my lip. I realize he's wiping away my 'beauty mark'. I close my eyes in defeat.

_He's figured me out_

"Hey," he says quietly, "Open your eyes." His hands cup my face, one hot and bare, the other cool and gloved. I obey; Brian Douglas taught me a thing or two about disobeying this guy.

"Who _are_ you?" he whispers, a giggle in his voice.

"The story you told Rachel," I change the subject, "It wasn't true, was it?" He frowns at me, releasing my face in a jerky movement, sitting back in his seat with and annoyed "humph".

"What-_uh_ makes you say that?" he demands, still scowling, like a child does when someone ruins there fun. I'm sure in this case, it's basically the exact same thing.

"Your men... They were talking... I... I overheard them say something about how you t-told someone else a different story," I stammer out nervously, just waiting for him to pull his knife back out. I chew my lip, watching the clown cautiously. He takes in my words, running his tongue along his scars on the inside of his cheeks. He sucks his lips in and releases them with a small 'pop'.

"They ruined-_duh _the joke for you," he mutters bitterly, rolling his head around his neck. I hear his neck crack several times. I cringe each time it does.

"Why do you, ah, think-_kuh_ I change the story, Green Eyes? Hm?" he asks, an edge to his voice.

"I don't know." I say quietly. He doesn't like my answer because he's glaring.

"Or maybe you're just bored?" I add quickly, wringing my hands nervously. The Joker's face unscrews and he laughs loudly.

"You, ah heh, you have _the_ best an-swers to these kinds of things!" he howls exultantly, coming forward again, planting both his hands on my seat at either side of me, invading my personal bubble.

Again.

"So what's your name, Green Eyes?" he asks, his dark eyes alight with mischief and all manners of wickedness.

"Vian-" I try but he shoves a hand roughly over my mouth, squeezing my lips painfully.

"Oh, _no no no_, no more lies-_suh_, missy," he admonishes, his nose brushing my cheek. I gulp.

I can't tell him.

That would be breaking the most important rule.

To the Folder and to myself.

I shake my head, whimpering. He takes his hand off me and 'soothingly' runs his hand through my hair.

"Tell me," he hums in my ear, his nose touching my earlobe. The car comes to a stop, and like Rachel earlier, I take some initiative and shove the Joker off of me, wrench open the door and swing out of the limo. I don't pause for a second; I bolt across the busy, traffic filled street, running as fast as my high-heeled feet can carry me.

_Thank god for taking track during high school_

~/~

I'm not stupid.

I know the Joker likely let me go.

The Joker isn't stupid.

He wouldn't leave the car doors unlocked by accident.

He could've easily shot me when I ran.

_Why did he let me go?_

~/~

Two days later, the newspaper and news are very interesting. Coverage of the fundraiser is all over. Apparently, no one was killed. Yes, many were seriously injured. After all, a bunch of clowns shot at them. People are saying they just had bad aim.

They are wrong.

No one has that bad of aim. The Joker told them not to kill them. Why though? There_ must_ be some reason behind his madness.

I _do_ have theories.

It's probably a power thing.

By simply maiming them, the Joker showed them that he has the power to end their lives, or spare them.

Of course, I may just be making up useless theories for a man who has no reason and is simply a nutter. I'm kind of hoping I'll never know.

I don't want to understand this man.

I can't begin to describe how relieved I am to be out of his debt.

Anyways, there was little coverage on me. Mostly just _"A woman was taken hostage and used as a human shield by the Joker to get him and his men past the police. Later, several of the Joker's men were taken into custody. The Joker and the woman were nowhere to be found. The woman could not be identified by the officers or the guests at the fundraiser. She is assumed dead,"_

Cheery.

But I was lucky. Only two people knew who Vianca was at the party. Everyone else didn't have the foggiest who I (Vianca) was.

Still, I'm not too happy about being assumed dead.

I called Harvey earlier today. Boy did I get an ear full. He was pissed that I didn't call him the moment that I escaped. He demanded I tell him what happened. I told him that he brought me to a car- I couldn't tell him the license plate number to his disappointment- and I later escaped. I kept it brief. He didn't need to know the details of the odd conversation the Joker and I had. I asked him if he had done what I asked, and he said yes, but he wanted me to come to his office later today, at two. I agreed, because I won't likely see him again after today, and even though I just met him, I want to say good bye.

So that's where I'm headed now.

Grab my satchel, grab my gun, put in the contacts (the new ones I had to get)and make the beauty mark.

And I'm off.

~/~

I avoid the elevators this time. So by the time I get to Harvey's office, I'm winded. My outfit today isn't as dark and plain. Vianca, as you know, doesn't _do_ plain. I'm wearing a pair of 'True Religion' navy skinny jeans and a custom made red silk blouse. These are actually from Vee's wardrobe. The only thing that's mine is the Steve Madden boots. I love them. Hardly ever walk around without them.

I have my glasses on so I'm able to hold my head high without having to worry that people from the party will recognize me. I knock on Dent's door and he calls for me to come in. I step in and see him at his desk, a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and his eyes on the papers scattered on his desk. He looks up and see's me, and gets to his feet so fast he bangs his knees on his desk.

"Vianc- Ow!" He curses a little and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from giggling.

"You okay Harv?" I tease but he ignores me and strides toward me, pulling me in for a bear hug. I try not to stiffen (_Not. A. Hugger_) and awkwardly pat his back.

"I'm okay, Harvey." I tell him, and it's the truth. I am not only okay.

I'm fucking blessed.

"Did he hurt you?" he growls as he pulls away, sliding off my sunglasses in a kind, gentle manner.

"Well, I wasn't exactly handled delicately, but nothing terrible," I reply like it wasn't a big deal.

"What are those then?" he points to the yellow, nearly faded bruises on my neck that I forgot to cover-up this morning.

_Shit, I've got to fucking stop slipping up_

"Nothing, Harvey. Those are old," I sigh a little with irritation. He doesn't look convinced but he lets it go.

"We'll get the bastard, Vee." he vows reverently. I nod and smile warmly. It's nice that Vianca had people in her life that cared about her so much.

"Enough of the clown now," I wave a hand, another classic Vianca gesture, and move past him to sit on Harvey's desk, "Did you get in any trouble completing the task?" I ask lightly. Harvey sighs, rubbing his jaw as he approaches the desk. He bends and pulls a cardboard box out from under the desk.

"No. But it took forever," he replies, opening the box. I raise a brow.

"It took you two days,"

"But for anyone less skilled, it would've," he grins boyishly.

_Darn, he's so cute_

"Is that all of it?" I ask, peering into the box.

"Actually, those are copies I made. I already destroyed and erased the originals and any other copies of them," Harvey says, like he's reciting a script. His speech is odd and forced, almost robotic. He's hiding his feelings. And it's making me feel really guilty.

_I hate this_

_I hate doing this_

_I can't wait for all of this to be over_

"Why did you make copies?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Well, I know your love for the theatrical, so I figured you'd want to set them on fire and watch them burn," he replies, smiling a _Colgate_ worthy smile.

"You know me so well," I murmur, putting the lid back on the box.

_He doesn't know me though_

_But he sure knows Vee_

"Well, we can't very well set fire to them here, so c'mon," He scoops up the box and begins heading for the door.

"Where are we going?" I ask, amusement evident in my voice, but not inside of me.

Inside I'm as serious as stone

And let me tell you... stones are pretty darn serious.

"You'll see," he throws over his shoulder as I follow him out of his office, forcing myself to strut instead of trudge like I wish I could.

_I really hate surprises_

~/~

The mood is surprisingly, if not appreciatively, sombre as the flames lick at the contents in the cardboard box. The multiple pieces of paper curl into themselves and crackle, sending little sparks of ember and flame toward Harvey and I, turning into ash as it hits the air. The sun is behind the clouds and its cold for a spring day. All normal for Gotham. Most cities are terribly hot in the warm seasons.

Not Gotham.

It's cold, dark and gloomy almost all year 'round.

I glance at Harvey. He looks eerie and haunted as he stares, transfixed, at the blaze. At the angle his body is at, the glimmer of the red's, gold's and orange's reflect and glow against one side of his face. For some reason, seeing this, seeing him look like this, sends a slithery feeling of cold down my spine.

"It's like you don't exist anymore," he breaks the silence, his words quiet and hoarse.

"That's the point, Harv," I say in my own whispery, husky voice. I feel like my own natural voice is better suited for this than Vianca's singing-like voice.

"Every document. Every piece of evidence that you were ever real, ever born, ever alive, has been destroyed." he whispers, his eyes closing in grief.

"You know it had to be done. The only way I can live is to not exist," I say softly.

Corny, I know, but Vianca always said stuff like that. Just staying in character.

"This might not work. There are plenty of people that know who you are. What about your family-"

"What family?"

"- And the people who work for your family? Or, the other students back at your college? You still exist for them, Vee."

"I know that, but they can never prove I was ever real. And if they ever want to try and find me they won't be able to. Besides, not many people at school knew me, and only you, Rachel and a few members of the mob know who I am here," I try to convince him.

And myself.

"And the Joker," He gives me a sideways glance, his eyes glinting in the fire light. I look at him thoughtfully.

"The clown isn't my problem. He's yours. And you'll get him. You always get the bad guys, Harvey," I gently touch his face, my palm itching.

I'm also not much of a toucher.

He takes my hand and kisses one of my knuckles.

"You'll always exist to me, Vianca," he pledges endearingly, his eyes fierce and filled with flames. I swallow uneasily, but manage a small Vianca-Smile. After awhile, Harvey sighs and looks at his watch.

"We've got to get going," he says, kicking the ashes and the last shred of evidence that Vianca Camilla Maroni was ever on this earth into the waters of Gotham Harbour. I wasn't pleased when I figured out the surprise was coming here. I don't really like water, but apparently Vee loved it here, so I had to pretend I did too.

"Going where?" I inquire a little suspiciously. He gives me an incredulous look.

"To Loeb's and Surrilo's funeral ceremony. The entire city will be there, as well as Rachel and me,"

"Oh," I say. I don't really want to go, but I don't want to seem disrespectful in Harvey's eyes. For some reason I want Harvey to like me, even though the one he see's and likes s Vianca. I'll go, for Harvey and because despite her flaws, Vianca really does respect the dead, especially when in life the person was honourable. I follow him back to the streets, and he hails a cab.

"Of course you can't sit with Rachel and me. We are seated with the family members and friends," he tells me sheepishly, "But I can get you a really good spot, close to the honour guard. There the best part of these kind of ceremonies,"

"Mm, men in uniform. Why don't _you_ have some sort of uniform, Harv?" I tease him flirtatiously, nearly gagging, but I realize I haven't flirted with him almost this entire time. How very un-Vianca-like. She isn't that much of a flirt, not with strangers at least, or people she doesn't like. She only flirts with people she cares about, and people she wants to mind-fuck with. Harvey blushes, and I start to see why Vee was in love with him. She says it was a phase and she was just being silly, but I really think she was in love with this man. And I understand it. He's humble and genuinely wants to help people; he doesn't fight for justice to get attention for himself. Vee usually prefers men who have less confidence than her, who depend on her.

That's why when she told me about her last boy toy, it had surprised me how dominant he was.

But, I have better things to do than muse over Vianca's love life. It's unpleasant to think about.

"I think a suit is good enough," Harvey mumbles as the cabbie pulls into the street.

"Sure, Harv, sure," I smile mockingly as I reach over to fix his tie.

It takes twenty minutes to get to Sphinx and 2nd, the street that's been cleared for the funeral march. I move to open my door, but Harvey touches my shoulder. I twist my torso to look at him questioningly.

"Be careful, Vianca," He addresses me seriously, "The Joker marked the mayor as his next victim, and is likely planning to assassinate him during the funeral."

My eyes widen in genuine surprise.

"Jeezus," I breathe, a little bit of the real me sneaking out there. Harvey smiles reassuringly and touches my hair (which is still a little bouncy from the peek-a-boo's two days ago, even though I've showered since then).

"Don't worry; we have snipers set up in nearly every building in the area. The Joker won't win this time. We'll get him,"

"Be careful, Harvey." I voice softly, touching the side of his face, despite the itchy feeling in my palm when our skin touches. He leans over and kisses my forehead tenderly, making my forehead tingle uncomfortably, but I don't mind too much.

_I wish someone cared about me like this_

I must sound terribly needy, but you must understand. It has been a long while since anyone has shown true, affections for me. Even before arriving in Gotham, I hadn't had a moment of real endearment with a person for several months.

I'm lonely.

Make something of it.

"I'm Harvey Dent. I've never been afraid of trouble," he grins cockily, but he doesn't really mean it. I can tell. He's worried too. Optimistic, but still a little anxious. I give him a Vianca-Smile and step out of the taxi. Harvey takes my arm and escorts me down the street. I put my sunglasses back on, just in case of press who want to gab about "Dent's mystery girl", as I'm the heading would be. He stops a little ways from a stage with a podium and seats on it. There are names on it, and at the front I can see names like 'Dent' 'Dawes' and 'Gordon'.

_...Gordon..._

I know that name. The Folder mentions him. Detective, likely Lieutenant now. A good man, the Folder says. Helped bust Carmine Falcone nearly a year ago. Falcone was a second cousin to the Maroni's. So, there are some hard feelings. But not for me. I feel myself admiring and appreciating this man. A good, honest man in a city that needs a little more nobility and goodness.

"You'll be right beside the honour guard here." Harvey says, maybe a little distractedly. He keeps staring at me.

"Hey, Vee?" he asks, sounding a little awkward, shuffling on his feet.

"Yes, Harvey?" I answer, peering up at him through the hair that's blown into my face. He swallows with some issue, then leans down and kisses me gently on the mouth. My eyes widen and I desperately want to step away (I do NOT kiss virtual strangers, no matter how cute, especially when their already taken) but I will myself to stand there, not participating but not resisting. He pulls back after a second, and I quickly look around to see if anyone saw. The street is pretty empty.

_Thank god_

"Please don't leave the city before seeing me again," he pleads quietly, his eyes filled with melancholy.

"Harvey-" I begin but he grabs my arm and demands fiercely, "Promise me!" The intenseness catches me off guard and scares me a little but I manage a small nod. The strange glint in his eyes slowly drains away and he smiles easily.

"I got to get going." he says, as people begin lining the sidewalks.

"Bye, Harvey. Thank you, for everything," I say sincerely.

"Just repaying my debts," he smiles then touches my face before heading off to greet some the people as they climb onto the stage. I sigh, and lean against the barrier that's been set up so civilians don't step onto the street.

This will be my second funeral.

_I wonder if there will be free food..._

**Alright, reviews, as I said, are very much appreciated. Just tell me how you feel 'bout the story and my character and the plot, whether you're like 'wtf, this makes no sense' or 'go crawl in a hole and die', they will still be appreciated... Maybe... **

**Oh, and I'm excited for next chapter... *grins evilly***

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Alright, I was gonna wait, but Mehh/Me again insisted I update, and plus I was afraid she might either hurt herself or me if I didn't. Also, Mehh/Me, where is this 'ad' thats meant to be 'and'. I must locate it so I can fix it. Mistakes are the devil! Anywho, this one's for you Mehh/Me. R&R.**

**Btw, make sure you read the note at the end.**

**Disclaimer: If I did own TDK, you think I'd still be writing on this forum? Nooo, I'd be out making money. I only own my OFC, and any other OC's I throw around.**

Chpt. 5 **Trigger Happy **

_We are no guiltier in following the primitive impulses that govern us than the Nile for her floods or the sea for her waves~ Donatien-Alphonse-Francois de Sade ( the Marquis de Sade)_

Have I ever mentioned I hate parades?

Well, this is technically a parade.

The entire law enforcement, including Rachel and Harvey, march down the cleared street, all walking in time to the sound of bagpipes. I hide a yawn, and watch for the Honour Guard Harvey mentioned. There a little ways behind the law enforcement and I'll admit they have lovely uniforms. Deep navy blue, form fitting; a man looks respectable in one of them.

And admittedly, pretty darn sexy.

After a bit, the people in the parade go to their appropriate places; some on the seats on the stage, others (mostly the coppers) lining the posts that block out the civilians. Harvey was right; I have a fantastic view of the Honour Guard. In fact, I'm practically beside one of them, if that stupid post wasn't there. But, the one I'm closest to looks a little...

Off. It's the best word to describe him.

His inky hair is mussed and a little greasy, and his beady eyes are shifty, making me unconsciously suspicious of him, and a little uneasy. His finger keeps flicking along the edges of his gun, and I think he's trembling. He looks at me for a moment, and utters an anxious, and a little bit demented, snigger. I frown, very unimpressed by his lack of respect. I guess I have a better frown than smile 'cos he jerks and turns back to the stage.

I can't help but smile proudly.

The mayor stands and even though I'm not a citizen, I've never known him or even know if he's a decent person, I'm a little worried about him. Would the Joker really risk an assassination, when everyone knew he wanted to, and had set up so much security? I mean, I can see all the snipers; there on every building in the area. There is no way the Joker or anyone else will even be able to point the gun without being shot himself.

Garcia begins a sweet, personal and slightly amusing speech but I'm not paying attention. Instead, I scan all the other people on stage, judging their facial expressions. Many, likely the family members/friends of the deceased, are trying to hold back tears; including Rachel. Harvey is stony faced and respectful, ever hiding his true feelings.

When my eyes reach that Gordon fellow, I see he's restlessly looking up around, surveying the many widowed buildings. Seeing him so anxious makes me even more uneasy. It doesn't help that feeling, the one I've described before, washes over me. The feeling that someone's watching me. I turn, thinking it's probably just the creepy Honour Guard guy near me, but I see he's staring at the mayor, a little intensely too. I frown, scanning the crowd, but everyone's the same; looking at the mayor. I whirl back to the Honour when I swear to god I hear a chuckle. Beside Creepy Honour Guard guy, another one smiles and winks at me, but turns his face way before I can distinguish his facial features. Dread fills me.

"... and we recognize the sacrifice of these officers, and we must remember vigilance is the price of safety," Garcia wraps up the speech, stepping back, smiling to hide his anxiety. I'm close enough to see the worry lines and the nervous cracks in his smile. One of the Honour Guard, the head honcho, I assume, steps forward, twirls on his heels and salutes. The rest mimic him. He raises his gun and garbles," Honour Guard. Attention. Port. Arms!" .Then he points his rifle to the sky and orders, "Ready. Aim. Fire!"

They fire.

I flinch at the sound of the bangs.

So does Gordon.

"Ready. Aim. Fire!"

They fire, and so does one of the snipers on one of the buildings. The rest happens in a blur.

"Ready. Aim. Fire!"

I turn to look at the Honour Guard as they spin around and point their rifles at the mayor. The man who winked at me smiles as the entire front row of the Honour Guard shoots at the mayor. I scream along with the rest of the crowd as Gordon, good, pure Gordon, jumps in front of the mayor, knocking him down. When he lands, he doesn't get up again.

I officially know who the man who winked at me was.

The Honour Guard scrambles and bleeds into the crowd as the police shoot at the guilty ones. The creepy, ink haired man gets shot in the leg, and goes down. I'm pushing through the guard, not wanting to be around if the police decide to question the witnesses. As I run, I notice one of the Honour Guard struggling to get past the panicking crowd. Pieces of poorly dyed hair is falling out of the blue guard cap, and without thinking, I run to him, grab his white gloved hand, and tug him toward a nearby alleyway.

Please don't question my intentions.

I'm still trying to figure them out myself.

I conjure a picture of the map of all the alleyways the Folder provided. When I first saw it, I thought it was stupid, I mean aren't you supposed to stay out of the alley's?

Now, I'm very grateful.

Okay, okay, where do we go? As far away as possible... The docks!

Okay, left turn.

Right turn.

Another right.

Run, run, run.

Left. Right. Left, left.

Gotham's weird. All the alleyways are attached to another, which is attached to a couple others, attached to several more. You can get anywhere in Gotham just by using the alleyways.

As long as you know which way to go.

As I (we) run, I try not to think about the hard grip on my hand, or who's holding me. I also try to think of the reason behind this rash decision. I'm opting toward the fact that I've hit my head several times over the past weeks.

I've gone bonkers.

Once I (we) reach the end of the alleyway just beyond the street that leads to the harbour. I stop and bend over, trying to catch my breath. With a start, I realize I'm still holding a hand in mine. I wrench my hand out its grip and prepare to make another run for it, when lightning quick, a hand clamps around my throat and I'm thrown against the brick wall of the alley. I gasp and gurgle, gripping the wrist of the hand that's around my throat. My eyes, wild and filled with fear, swing to my attacker, and I know for sure that this man is definitely who I thought it was. The nude coloured make-up doesn't hide the jagged scars very well. Also, those eyes on fire could only belong to the Joker. And those eyes are filled with a murderous rage.

_I'm so dead_

"Sto-" I attempt to choke out but the Joker squeezes harder. Jeezus, I thought this was terrible when Carlisle did it. This is infinitely worse. I officially do not understand women who think choking is kinky and sexy. I see those black dots again and there already starting to mold together.

Through the insistent buzzing in my ear I hear the Joker snarl, "_Why_?"

That one word can mean several things, but I'm pretty sure I know what he means. I weakly tug on his wrist and gasp, "Please- I can't-" The Joker growls deep in his throat, and flings me away from him. I land, hard, on my knees and clutch my neck, hacking and sputtering, forcing oxygen to return to my lungs. I take huge gulps of air, sobbing at the pain. I can only imagine how pathetic I look.

I whimper and back peddle my legs when I hear footsteps coming my way. A hand latches onto my right ankle and I yelp as the Joker drags me toward him. He kneels and takes my shoulders in a vice grip, his faces inches from mine.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, staring gape mouthed and wide-eyed at the Joker, tears still pouring out of my eyes. I'm glad that earlier, before the funeral had started, I had taken out the blue contacts. I mean they would've made my eyes even more irritated, not to mention a certain clown _very_ irritated. I'm surprised as the Joker laughs softly, loosening his grip on me slightly.

Wait, wasn't this guy just choking me to death only thirty seconds ago?

"What-_uh_ are ya sorry for, Green Eyes?" he asks, his voice hushed. My brow furrows in confusion; what am I sorry for again?

"Y-you, you missed your t-t-target," I stutter stupidly, my chest heaving with an effort to get enough air in me. He raises his brows, and smirks at me.

"No problemo, darlin', still got good ol' Gor-don," He pats my head and stands up, brushing off his navy uniform. I slump onto my butt, staring up at him dumbly.

"But, you wanted the may-" I begin but he interrupts me, "Do ya want to know something about chaos-_sah_?" I cock my head to the side and he continues, "It's-_suh_ _random_." he nods a little, leaning against the wall, muttering to himself. I remain on the ground, mulling over his words.

So, he's trying to tell me it's good that the actual target didn't die because that would've been too orderly, and that because Gordon died, it'll send Gotham into more chaos than it would've if Garcia had been shot?

I kind of understand what he's saying, but I don't agree with it.

You'd have to be insane to agree with anything he says.

"He was a good man," I say out of the blue, picking myself up off the ground. The Joker, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, rolls his dark eyes to me.

"Oh?"

"Yes. He cared about this city. And the citizens. You killed a good man today," I say tersely, angry when I start thinking about Gordon's family. The Folder says he has a wife and three children. He scoffs and straightens off the wall, and I notice he doesn't have a rifle anymore. Maybe today is my lucky day. Wait...

Crap.

He has his switchblade.

I back a step away from him, glowering at the knife. He glowers at me. His mood swings are starting to piss me off. Murderous to amused, to annoyed in less than five minutes.

"I think-_kuh_, Green Eyes, you suff-er from_ mood swings-zuh_," he states, taking a single step toward me. My muscles lock up; did we just think...

No. Don't go there.

"One minute you are, ah, _helping_ a guy out," the Joker continues, taking another step, "The next your _apologizing,_ and now your ac-cusing me of killing a 'good man'"," he uses air quotations.

"You did." I say through my teeth, warily watching him move toward me. He stops a foot away from me, his expression annoyed but still slightly amused. His hand reaches up, and I flinch. He rumbles threateningly in his throat and snatches my chin in his fingers. I glare just as heatedly at him as he does at me.

"Tell me this, then. Why did-_duh_ you, uh, _help_ me get away, after I shot-_tuh_ your_ good man_?" he questions, looking me straight in the eye, resting the dull side of the blade on my cheek. Without his make-up I see his eyes are not black, but are in fact a very dark shade of brown, with flecks of amber scattered through them. They are suddenly so human that I can't look at them anymore. I close my eyes and moan softly in despair.

"Why?" he repeats, giving me a rough shake. I sigh and say the first thing that comes to mind.

"I suppose I want to stay on your good side," I mutter, opening one eye to judge his reaction. My nose curls as his irritated face breaks into an impish grin. Thankfully, though, he pockets the knife.

"Oh ho ho, so ya wanna stay ahead of the game-_ah_, do ya? Smart girl," he chortles, and I can't tell if he's being endearing or condescending. And game? Didn't know we were playing one.

"Ahead of the curve, just. Like. Me," he intones, his eyes suddenly frighteningly intense. He shuffles closer and bumps his forehead against mine, licking his lips. I get an excellent view of his real face, and I allow myself to admit he's pleasant looking, even with the Chelsea Grin. His skin is interesting; it looks like it at one point was naturally tanned, but all the colour has drained out of it, leaving it a diluted beige colour. He has even features; slanted cheekbones, narrow but attractive lips, and a straight nose. His most attractive quality is his jaw. Strong and chiselled and seductive...

_What the fuck? Seductive?_

His least attractive feature is his eyes, or at least, the incredibly dark circles under them. He looks like a zombie or vampire, or something along those lines. He seriously looks like he never sleeps. It's like he's still wearing the greasepaint, but only on the bottom part of his eyes. All I want to do is get an eraser and wipe the darkness away. Then, he would be almost... handsome?

No, no, no, no. Handsome and the Joker do not belong remotely near the same category.

Then, what is he?

Hot? No.

Sexy? No.

Cute? Certainly not.

Maybe pleasant-looking or good-looking but those both seem too tame and innocent.

_Magnetic_

Ah, there it is.

You're not sure or why, but you're... drawn in. Compelled.

Dear lord, I'm getting poetic again.

Stop me at any time.

"Are y' ever gonna tell me you're name-_uh_?" his voice is husky and perhaps attempting to be seductive, but it's just... Wrong. It makes me queasy.

"No." I say shortly.

"Why not?"

"Would you ever tell me yours?"

"You _know_ mine,"

"_The Joker_ is not a name. It's an alias," I counter pointedly. A thought comes to mind.

"Would you be content with an alias of mine?" I inquire. He looks suspicious but nods his head quickly.

"Alright, give me a minute to think of something that won't be entirely stupid," I mumble, thinking hard.

_No-Name?_

"Are ya still mad at me?" he pouts, changing the subject.

"I dunno,"

_Mystery Girl?_

"This is all just very..." I mull for a word, "Strange," I decide.

"Hmm?" the Joker inclines his head.

_Anonymous?_

"I mean we keep bumping into each other. You figured out my, um... _secret_, and you keep not killing me... Although you came pretty close earlier..." I drift off when he begins to laugh, stepping away from me to bend over as he cackles.

"You are _so_ female!" he whoops, mockingly wiping invisible tears of mirth from his eyes, "Over-_ah _thinkin' everything," he straightens but remains smiling.

_Unknown... Jeezus, his smile is so much better without the paint..._

I must have gone all soft eyed on him because he suddenly smirks, and the only way to describe the action is _rakish_.

"Are you- heh- Were you just checking me out-_ah?"_ he croons, sliding stealthily forward.

Right for me.

If my eyes were wide before, they just took over half my face now.

"What! No! I mean- I wasn't- I didn't- I just-" I sputter, backing away until my back hits the brick wall.

"You mean- You weren't- You didn't- You just-... You just-_tah_ what, Green Eyes?" he narrows his eyes, but they are alight with mirth and something strange. Something burning. I press my back into the wall, my breathing and heart rate picking up in a way that I'm sure can't be healthy. He eliminates all distance between us, his clothes just brushing against mine.

"Do ya think-_uh_ I'm handsome, darlin'," he purrs, his mouth millimetres from mine, his voice a mockery of a southern lilt.

"Uh..." I honestly cannot think of what to say.

_Jeezus Chrast this guy is confusing_

His palms press into the wall at either side of my head and his nose nuzzles my cheek. I gulp at the air, feeling claustrophobic. I have the urge to push against his chest but I don't think it would do much, apart from perhaps making him think it was an invitation...

_Oh my god_

His mouth skims over the skin on my neck, and I whimper at the unwelcome friction. I realize, with a sickening twist in my gut, I'm panting, and my chest is heaving against the Joker's.

"Please," I whisper softly, closing my eyes and twisting my face away from his. I can't think. His scent of sweat, gasoline, and smoke and - Gain laundry detergent? - is clouding my mind and senses and I hate it. I hate not being in control. But as quickly as it started, my invasion of privacy ends, and when I open my eyes, he's several feet, his expression that of sardonic amusement. But, his eyes still sear with that strange something.

We just stare at one another for some time, me still panting. Jeezus, will I ever have enough air in my lungs? He asked earlier if I was still mad at him. Well, to answer that when I look at the new bruises on my neck next time I look in the mirror, let's just say I won't be getting any warm fuzzies.

"Do, ah, do ya got the time?" he asks out of nowhere. I blink, startled by the nonchalant question, and check the narrow black watch on my wrist.

"Um, quarter after four," I answer, looking at him with my brows slightly knit. He nods a little, and rocks on his heels, looking actually a little awkward. I feel a lot awkward.

"Well-_uh_, this was, ah, _nice_," he twirls his wrist, and despite his words he's grimacing, "But-_uh_ duty calls. See ya 'round, Gree-"

"Wait!" I interrupt him, suddenly thinking of something. His frown deepens, but he motions for me to continue.

"You owe me," I say quietly, a small smile playing on my face. His frown loosens to a look of bewilderment and I don't notice him striding toward me.

"You owe me," I repeat, "And I'm a _woman_ who always collec-" before I can ironically give the Joker back his own words, I'm slammed back against the wall and his mouth comes crashing down on mine. My eyes rip open so wide it almost hurts, and I will myself not to scream, because I don't want to open my just in case he...

_Oh god_

His lips slide zealously over mine, not quite frenzied, but far from leisure. I make small, muffled sounds of protest, and I allow myself to shove against his chest. He proceeds to push his body against mine, affectively locking me in place, my arms trapped between our bodies. One of his hands holds the back of my head, crushing my hair in his grip while the other lightly encircles my neck. His kiss is as ardent as one can be without any tongue. Not to say there isn't a little tongue. His tongue traces my bottom lip, coaxing my mouth to open, but I'll have none of it. More of his hair escapes his cap and tickles my face. His nose presses into the skin beside my own nose, and despite myself I wonder if that hurts. In my musing I realize I have stopped fighting and have not relaxed but allowed this madman to kiss me. His mouth feels relatively like a normal mouth. Although it's chapped and a little bumpy from the scars...

_The scars_

I can feel the rigid lines of his scars against my cheeks and I can't tell if it disgusts me or tickles me. I think both. I feel them stretch and I realize...

He's smiling.

Who smiles while kissing-

Wait, never mind.

All things considered, he doesn't taste terrible. It tastes like he either has a strict diet of candy or he just chugged a ton of maple syrup. It's disturbing that a man like him can taste... _sweet_.

Bleh. I can hardly even... Jeezus Chrast.

How the fuck do I always get into these-

_OH MY GOD DON'T DO THAT! _

The hand that was on my neck skims over my face, slides down my neck and traces along my collar bone. I buck and resume to trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

"Hey, shh-shh-shh," he murmurs against my lips and I mumble unintelligibly back, unfortunately opening my mouth wide enough for his tongue to drag along my teeth. His tongue tickles my gums. My gums have always been sensitive... OH MY GOD DON'T GET SIDETRACKED!

Finally, after what seems like forever (I know, cliché but it actually did) the Joker pulls back and steps away. Without his weight keeping me against the wall, I topple forward and nearly fall to the ground. I'm breathing unhealthily heavily as I stare up at the Joker, who's adjusting the Honour Guard hat, and licking his lips, a scowl on his face. I shake my head rapidly, trying to clear my head and make sense of things. I decide that I'm not going to over think this. He's a loony toone, he has no clear reason why he does anything, including kissing me.

But why did he-

_NO! Don't even go there_

I really badly want to lick my lips but then I'll taste-

Instead, when the Joker's not looking, I wipe feverishly at my mouth, trying to get rid of all traces of the mad clown.

"You, ah, you never did give me that alias," the Joker reminds me gruffly, impatient that he lost so much time messing around from me (or so I assume). Shit, I haven't come up with a good one. I consider telling him to call me Brunhilda Shvenson, but I don't think he'd find it as amusing as I do. I can tell he's getting impatient so I have to think quick.

Okay, what are some nicknames I've had in the past?

Robbie DeMarco called _Bee-Sting_ in grade seven because I hadn't, ahem, developed yet.

My Uncle called me _Bunny_ for reasons I'd rather not discuss.

Gramma called me _Leanbh_, which is Irish for child.

And Vianca called me darling and...

"I've got one," I say quietly. He wiggles his fingers, a sign to continue.

"You're not going to get it though," I warn, "It's an inside thing between someone else and me,"

"Yeah, yeah, just tell me," the Joker asserts briskly . I pull myself to my full height and lift my chin, not wanting to be that pathetic, snivelling me from earlier. I'm still embarrassed by that.

"_Rumour_," I say, "Call me Rumour,"

**Ehmagosh, she finally has a name... sorta. Sorry if the way her little alias comes into the picture seems a little random. I couldn't think of anything better. So, yes, she can be referred to as Rumour. That's what I call her in my head. You'll understand the alias a little more in a later chapter.**

**Also, um, yes I did say this isn't romantic, and it isn't, not really. The little kiss is explained more fully in a later chapter. And, if anything, this could be seen as attraction on the Joker's part, or it could even be seen as VERY one-sided romance, but not really because they don't know each other yet, so just be patient and don't hate me for sneaking in some kissy-kissy there. I promise there won't be like any fluff between the Joker and Rumour... And if there is, it won't be uber fluffy.**

**Oh, and another thing, I said Gordon has **_**three**_** kids rather than **_**two**_**, like it shows in the movie, but I wanted to leave the option open of having a third daughter (older, likely in college), for future plot twists and/or stories.**

**Anywho, gots tah review if ya want more! I eats reviews, they keep me nourished.**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	6. Chapter 6

**So, I'll admit it now, I'm no good at action sequences . So, please excuse my pitiful attempts. I'm more of a dialogue, describer and monologuer than kick-butt, seat gripping action writer. Also, I will explain a little further in the note at the bottom; I do that a lot :P**

**Anywho, no Jokery goodness in this chappie *howls in despair*. I know, I know, the horror, the agony. But! There is a little of the Bat, tiny amount of a DA and a good amount of a certain smug Italian. Also, this one's UBER long, second longest, I think. **

**Oh, and just so you know, Rumour's opinions and jabs are not serious and do not necessarily reflect MY opinions.**

**Disclaimer: *steals TDK* *Nolan V-8's me and takes it back* *sob***

Chpt. 6 **All of the Lights **

_Cop lights, flashlights, spotlights, strobe lights, streetlights, all of the lights~ Kanye West_

I was right. The Joker didn't get my alias. But, he didn't linger around after I told him .After our kiss (mouth rape?) he was very... _Grumpy_ would be the most suitable word. I mean, if anything _I_ should've been the one grumpy one. But no, he was. I was just confused. Like, really,_ really_ confused. I had told myself I wasn't going to over think the kiss (mouth rape?) but you know, I can't help it. Actually, I'm over thinking that entire encounter. And Jeezus do I feel embarrassed. I mean the whole 'alias' thing was just as humiliating as the whole molestation thing... Well, maybe not but whatever.

Okay, so I've decided that both the alias thing was because the oxygen hadn't returned to my brain after being strangled.

And I'm not going in any deeper than that.

But I am going to go deeper into the mouth rape (kiss?).

Please tell me... Did I lead the Joker on at all?

...

No, I didn't think so either. I mean, all I did was _attempt_ to make a funny by giving him back his own words. I expected him to either cackle like the mad thing I know he is, or strangle me again.

'_Wanna know something about chaos... It's random'_

Maybe the Joker is just the embodiment of chaos. Maybe I shouldn't ever expect anything from him. That sounds like a good plan. Always be on guard around the clown, even when he doesn't look like himself.

Oh, that must be it.

I underestimated how unpredictable he is, because he was in uniform rather than in his purple suit. Also, again, I was very much disorientated.

I'm still getting over the shock of seeing the Joker without his war paint on. Before, I had said his 'real face'. I take that back. That may have been his _bare_ face, but I believe the paint is actually his _real _face. He is, always was and always will be the Joker.

I firmly believe that.

~/~

It's only been a couple hours and I'm already on the move. I wasn't supposed to go to that funeral today. That wasn't meant to be my big adventure of the day. Nope, tonight I have a whole other mission.

Tonight, I, the prudish little imposter, am going to a nightclub.

Actually, I was meant to go earlier than this but I haven't worked up the courage. I had meant to go next weekend but I only trust Felicia to do my hair and make-up and she's going on vacation next week and she's all booked in for the rest of this week so tonight at eight it is. I pull out the second dress Peaches made for me, my nose curling a little. The dress is pretty, but pretty friggin short too. Its short sleeved with a deep square neckline and it will go down to mid thigh. The dress is royal blue, and from the middle of the neckline, down the middle of the dress to the hem is a red, cream and green pilgrim pattern. Thankfully though, it isn't skin tight. It isn't loose either but it will give me room to actually move around and breathe. The best thing about the ensemble is that the shoes I have to wear are black gladiator sandals, with winding straps that will reach a little past my ankles. Vee _never _wore heels to nightclubs. Not that she went to them that often. She finds them boring; I simply find them intimidating. I haven't decided what to do with my hair. I think I'll let Felicia decide, as well as with my make-up. I have to tell her to go for sexy, though. That's the whole point of the short dress. They won't let me into _Toxin_ nightclub if I'm not hot.

Although security may not let me in if they recognize Vianca Maroni. After all, Salvatore Maroni does own the joint.

~/~

I must say, I'm getting better at covering up bruises. Looking in the mirror as Felicia does my hair; I can hardly see the new bruises around my neck. Hmm, I remember telling myself that I shouldn't get strangled again.

I'm not sure if it's worth developing a grudge for the clown. I mean, I don't plan on seeing the Joker again, or at least, I don't think I will. Why would I? I'm leaving this godforsaken city in a few days. Besides, it's not like I'm going to scour the city, hunting for the clown in my debt

Anyways, he's crazy. Doesn't that mean he has an excuse to go apeshit and strangle someone?...

... No, it doesn't but whatever.

Anyways, Felicia decided to go for a simple fishtail braid, with two tendrils poking out from my temples and curled, framing my face. To bring out the green in my dress, she applied some pale green eyeshadow to the bottom of my eyelid, and underneath my eye. In with the blue she mixed in some white eyeshadow, which stretches out from the corner of my eye, reminding me of an Egyptian. Since my eyes are so dramatic, she puts a simple nude gloss on my lips. She applies a little bit of the sparkly, white blush to my cheekbones to give me a "frosted" look.

In my dress, shoes, hair and make-up (not to mention shaved legs) I look pretty darn sexy. All I need is my blue contacts, Vee's necklace and my makeshift beauty mark.

There's no way the bouncer won't let me into _Toxin._

~/~

I arrive at_ Toxin_ at ten, a black wristlet, with a small pistol in it, in my hand. I take a deep breath and make my way to the line. Several men turn to look at me and I can't stop my cheeks from reddening.

"Hey, honey, come join us," a man near the beginning of the terribly long line hoots. I think a moment then shrug; the sooner I get in the sooner I get out. I practice Vee's- Vixen- Smile, which is an _entirely _different smile than her normal toothy one. This one she only uses when she wants something...

Or wants to _use_ someone.

I saunter over, swinging my hips more than necessary, and I try to ignore the corny cat-calls.

Ugh.

See, this is why I don't really bother to ever get gussied up.

First of all, I have a C in self confidence.

Second, men are _so_ not worth getting dressed up for.

The man, or men apparently, that invited me to join them look about my age; college students. And all incredibly preppy. The one who called me over looks like Edward Cullen with his weird standing up, gelled hair and his designer casual wear. His friends don't look much different.

"Hey, I'm Neil. This is Curtis and Grady," Edward Cullen guy- Neil – says.

"Brunhilda," I say, biting my tongue to keep from snorting. They give me a baffled stare, then a once over and apparently decide I'm good looking enough, even with the horrid name.

"You look great tonight, Bruny," Grady - I think - comments as we move forward in line. I smile at his attempt at making the name more attractive.

"I try," I reply, trying my hardest not to roll my eyes. The music thumping from the club fills me with trepidation; I am _so _gonna get a migraine.

I make small talk with the College Vampires, as I dub them, and we slowly make our way up the line. We finally reach the front of the line, and a large Mexican guy regards me, a big shit eating grin on his face. He looks like he wants to put me in one of his tacos and gobble me up. He opens the velvet rope to let me through, but instantly closes it, not allowing the College Vampires in. They holler and protest, but I give them one last Vixen-Vee smile and melt into the crowd.

Gah.

Strobe lights.

Music blaring.

Bodies grinding.

All in all, not my cup of tea.

Okay, now to find the V.I.P area.

I push as politely as I can past the drunk, dancing imbeciles.

_Excuse me_

_Pardon me_

_No, no, don't touch me_

_No, sir, I don't want you to get me drink that you've likely filled with rooffies_

_Just ignore them_

_Ignore, ignore, ignore_

Finally, I think I've found it. And, also, a song I actually recognize comes on. 'Ghosts n Stuff' by Dead Mau5. I like this song. So I'm singing along and walking in time to the song as I approach the V.I.P area. I look up and I think I see Sal, with some blond bimbo...

Wait.

I shouldn't call her that.

But, only because tonight I look like a blond bimbo myself.

I'm about to go and enchant the bouncer guarding the V.I.P area when the song changes and I see a dark figure make its way toward Sal's table. The shape takes out several bodyguards, and everyone around the area starts screaming and running away. It's eerie; the way the shape moves in the strobe lights make it (him?) seem even more dangerous and inhuman.

I don't see this ending well.

The shape takes out all of Sal's bodyguards and before he can run away, the shape leaps and lands in front of him with the grace of a panther. He takes Sal by the collar and drags him away and out of the club.

_Well... The Folder never mentioned anything about giant bats _

I push my way past the terrified crowd (honestly, why do I keep getting caught in these?) and force my way to the back door. I wrench open the door and jog out, looking up.

Ah, there they are...

Oh, and goody, Mr. Bat is hanging Sal off a fire escape by his collar. Not exactly being a stealth or graceful person, I make my way close to them, sticking to the shadows and make a lot of noise due to my panting. And because I keep tripping over the bottle strewn all over the alleyway.

_What the heck is with me and alleys today?_

I'm against the wall of catwalk several feet from the Bat and Sal Maroni, but I can just make out their exchange.

"... _the Joker_," the vigilante rasps, his voice filled with malice and threats.

Cocky and ever Italian, Maroni answers, "From one professional to another- if you're trying to scare someone, pick a better _spot_. From this height the fall wouldn't even kill me,"

Hmm. The Man-Sized-Bat is right. It's not _that_ high up...

"_I'm counting on it_," and down Maroni plummets, a shrill scream escaping him. But, bless me, I don't scream. Instead, my jaw just drops. I thought... Though...

Honestly, I thought the Batman was kind of a joke. I mean, diving after damsels in distress? Psh, very Toby Maguire in a lame red and blue spandex suit of him. But this, this side of Gotham's dark Guardian... He's...

_Ruthless_

But, affective. Very much efficient. Almost... Admirable?

I mean I'm still a little disturbed by the fact some dude is running around in a rubber bat suit, but still, I give the guy props. He'll do_ anything_ to protect the city, including breaking several laws.

_And people_

Under different circumstance, I'd be cheering the Batman on, but the Italian he just hurled off a building is kind of important to my quest. So, I kind of don't want him broken... Crap, legs aren't supposed to bend that way, are they?

The Batman glides gracefully down to Maroni, and I'm totally transfixed. How can someone be so gritty yet so graceful at the same time?

This dude should've called himself the Fucking Panther because his movements are those of a fierce, stealth and very much deadly wild cat...

Stop me _any _time.

The masked man hauls Maroni up, and I wince as Maroni hollers in pain.

"_Where is he?"_ the Bat demands, his voice harsh and no-nonsense.

"I don't know," Sal doesn't sound so cocky anymore, "He found us-"

"_He must have friends,"_ the Batman grounds out his words, sounding a little more than peeved.

"Friends? Have you met this guy?" Sal questions the anti-hero like he just asked the stupid question in the world. Even I have to stifle my giggles.

The Joker + Friends just doesn't add up very well.

"_Someone must know where he is_," the Dark Guardia insists, his rough voice demanding and menacing. I wonder if whoever's underneath the mask needs Fishermen's Friend cough candies after going around talking like that all night.

"No one's gonna tell you nothin'- they're wise to your act," Sal sneers, his Italian-ness coming back out, "You got rules... The Joker, he's got no rules. No one's gonna cross him for you. You want this guy, you got one way. And you already know what that is. Just take off that mask and let him come find you," The Batman, tired of Maroni's stubbornness and probably put off by his cruel- but very much true- words, drops him, letting the mob leader plop to the ground. The Bat stares down at him, panting.

"Or do you want to let a couple more people get killed while you make up your mind?" Sal bares his teeth at him.

_That was cold_

Then without any further words, the Batman disappears into the shadows.

Salvatore Maroni remains on the wet ground, in the middle of the road, cursing the vilest cuss's I've heard in my life.

I let him get _that _out of his system, in the meantime going through what the Folder says about Sal in my head.

'_Salvatore Maroni is my half brother. His mother was married to my father for twenty years before they split up. As rumours go, the split was consensual; they had long ago lost their passion and love for each other. Especially with my mother around. I like to think Mama and Daddy never consummated their love until after the divorce. Sal likes to think that it was my mother's fault that Daddy and Augusta (Sal's mother) broke up. Which might be true but I never thought it mattered. Everyone was happy; Daddy loved Mama and vice-versa, and Mama and Augusta actually became good friends and Daddy and Augusta remained friendly. But, Sal didn't like that his step-mother was, at twenty three, only three years older than him. He also didn't like that ten months after the wedding, his only sibling was born, and that he was twenty years older than me. _

_I tried; I mean I hope I did, to get him to love me, or to at least care a little. But, he treated Mama and I like trash. Even after mama died from Anaphylactic Shock when I was fourteen (deathly allergic to Tree Nuts), he became even worse. He became indifferent. He never acknowledged me. That's why so few people in Gotham know who I am. He denies having a sibling. He doesn't think of me as family. Never did. But, I wanted him so badly to love me. I don't know if I love Sal, but I do care about him. Which is why I want you to say good-bye to him for me, and maybe clear some of the air between us._

_He'll be pissed about taking money from the family account, so keep a gun on you. I don't know where he lives or where he does business, but I know almost every Saturday night he takes his mistress to Toxin. Find him there._

_Be careful, darlin'. xo'_

This will be my hardest mission by far.

Okay, how should I approach this? Should I go for 'OMG I was in the neighbourhood, and I saw you on the ground and I was like DUDE we should totally-'

I'm thrown out of my admittedly ridiculous thoughts when Maroni emits another loud groan of pain. His boys will be out to find him soon so I've got to act quickly.

_Breathe in_

_Breathe out_

I jog toward Maroni's fallen form, my sandals slapping noisily against the damp ground. When it starts to drizzle I almost swear. At least my hair's up ad it won't get ruined. My make-up, not so much.

I reach him and kneel by his side, lightly touching his mangled leg.

"Sal," I breathe, "What have you gotten yourself into?"

His face snaps to mine, surprised before he narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"What are you doin' here?" he snaps, apparently not impressed by my concern.

"I came to see you, then the Bat came..." my voice drifts off as I stare at his leg.

"Why?" his voice is fierce and I'm thinking that this mission will likely be a failure.

"To talk?" it sounds like a question. He scoffs.

"Or to steal more of my money? Your kind is good at that," he sneers.

_Son of a..._

"That's just it, Sal," I say, trying to be patient, "I came to apologize, for whatever I, my mother or my family has ever done to you, whatever that might be. I'm leaving soo-"

Maroni interrupts me, "Who are you?"

"What?" my jaw drops and my face must have been very much comically surprised. Maroni doesn't laugh though. His face is full of suspicion and detest. Way more than before.

"Who. Are. You?" he demands through grit teeth, his patience non-existent.

"What are you-"

"Please, give me a little credit, sweetheart," he scorns, "I've known Vianca all her life, and never _once_ has she apologized for anything. You'd needa spine for that,"

_Ah shit. I'm screwed_

But not too surprised. Actually, I'm more surprised that no one else has figured this out. Well, I suppose _one_ other person has. Isn't it just my luck two of the most dangerous men in Gotham know my little secret?

"So, mind tellin' me who you are?" it sounds like a question but I know it's an order. I hang my head down, retracting my hand from his leg.

"I can't tell you that," I whisper.

"I see. Can you tell me why you're in _my_ city masquerading as my sister?"

I'm surprised he's acknowledged Vee as his kin.

"I can't tell you that," I repeat, using my own naturally lower, huskier voice. No point in being sing-song anymore.

"Mhm. Well, what do you want with me? Can ya tell me that?" he jeers, baring his straight, white teeth at me.

"I already told you," I reply softly, unable to look him in the eye. What a picture we must make. Me kneeling beside a fallen man, the rain dripping down on us. To anyone else it would look like a scene from a Nicholas Sparks book. But for me, it's more like the _Godfather_.

"You came to apologize for Vianca?" he asks, incredulous. I simply nod, droplets of water streaming down my nose. I frown when he begins to laugh mirthlessly.

"And why does my _little sister_," he spits the words, "Wanna apologize? I thought she was pretty well content with having my father all to herself,"

"She didn't mean-" I try to defend her but he ruthlessly cuts me off.

"Oh she meant to. Her and her mother. First her mother, pretty little Johanna, took my father out from under my mother's nose-"

I cut him off this time, my voice rising, "They didn't love each other anymore!"

"Is that what she told you?" he looks genuinely surprised, "Dear lord, girl, either you are really naive or, like all the people in Vianca's perfect little life, she has you wrapped around her little finger. My mother loved him til' the day he died four years ago. Still does. Oh, and let me guess; Vianca also told youse that my mother and her mother were good friends?" his mocking smile leads me to believe that this isn't true.

"You're wrong," I say hoarsely, my throat suddenly tight.

"Am I?" his mocking smile grows and I feel sick, "You don't know Vianca very well then. She is a master manipulator. And I don't know what you think she is to you, but for her, all you are is a little pawn. One of the best she's ever had, I gotta admit. You could be her twin. Although I can see your wearing contacts and that little mole you made? Yeah, it came off," he reaches up and wipes at my chin, his fingers coming off with blackish liquid on them. If that came off, then just imagine how terrible my eye make-up must be.

"If you want some advice, give up on whatever little _mission_ Vianca has given you. It ain't worth it. If it was, she woulda come here and done it herself,"

_Don't listen to him_

_He's lying _

_Vee wouldn't..._

_She'd never..._

_But..._

I shake my head, water flying everywhere. I stumble to my feet and run blindly away.

"Hey! When you see my little sister again, tell her apology_ not_ accepted," Maroni hollers after me.

~/~

"Don't stop thinkin bout tomorrow, Don't stop it'll soon be here, It'll be here better than before, Yesterday's gone..." I sing, out of tune, with Fleetwood Mac as the music pours out of my iPod dock. Between lyrics I shovel choco-chip mint ice cream into my mouth with an over sized spoon, wallowing in self-pity.

After I talked to Sal I ran all the way to the closest convenience store and bought all my 'Feel Better Foods'; original Skittles, Mars Bars, All-Dressed chips (but only because they didn't have any Ketchup chips), Fanta Grape Soda and of course, Choco-Chip Mint ice-cream.

Two hours later I have stormed through the skittles, munched all the Mars Bars, used my mouth as a vacuum for the chips, chugged all the grape soda and now I'm half done the ice-cream. I expect to have a major sugar hang-over in the morning...

"...Ungh..." I groan twelve hours later, rubbing my temples. I sit up on my couch, various wrappers falling off me. Jeezus I feel sick. I rub my eyes and reach for the remote, since I had apparently left it on while I slept. I'm about to turn it on when a _Breaking News_ promo comes on. I squint at the screen, then my eyes widen as Dent steps up onto a podium. The crowd of reporters and cops go nuts for a moment until Harvey begins.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming," he stares into the crowd, his face intense and maybe a little earnest, "I've called this press conference for two reasons," he pauses, like every good speech maker should, "Firstly, to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killings is being done," the crowd utters quiet disagreements but allow Dent to proceed, "Secondly, because the Batman has offered to turn himself in-"

This time, the crowd reacts a lot louder.

One insolent heckler calls out, "So where is he?"

Dent continues unfazed, "But first, let's consider the situation: should we give into this terrorist's demands? Do we really think that-" He's interrupted by a female reporter.

"You'd rather protect an outlaw vigilante than the lives of the citizens?" and the crowd nosily assents.

_Jeez, tough crowd_

But Harvey keeps his composure and answers, "Batman _is_ an outlaw. But that's not why we are demanding he turn himself in. We're doing it because we're scared. We've been happy to let Batman clean up our streets for us until now-"

The same heckler from earlier calls, "Things are worse than ever!"

The crowd shouts their agreement angrily. Dent's losing the crowd. But does he give up? No.

Harvey leans over the podium, and impassionedly declares, "_Yes_. They are. But the night is always darkest before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn _is_ coming," the crowd quiets, "One day, the Batman will have to answer for the laws he's broken – but to _**us**_, not to this madman."

For a second, I believe Dent's got this crowd, until an officer shouts, " No more dead cops!" And he's lost them again. They begin shouting and demanding the Batman. By the look on Harvey's face he knows he's lost this battle

"So be it," he says darkly, turning to the officers, "Take the Batman into custody,"

A hush descends, and the crowd's hungry eyes scan the room. Dent offers his wrists to the officers and announces, "_ I_ am the Batman,"

I blink.

Blink again.

"...What?"

_What!_

_Wait_

_He's..._

_No way..._

_Nuh-uh, he can't be..._

_Harvey the..._

_It's not..._

_But maybe..._

_He was nowhere to be seen when the Joker crashed..._

_And he is very passionate about justice..._

_Ho shit!_

_Jeezus Chrast!_

If I'm freaking out, just imagine Rachel right now...

~/~

So, the newscast completely pulled me out of my sugar hangover. And, I couldn't seem to be unable to sit still so instead I decide to journey back to Vee's penthouse to _finally_ collect those last 'Must-Haves'.

Plus, I'm leaving this nutty city by the end of this week. I was given an entire month, but this city is getting too dangerous. I mean it's not even the clowny terrorist, although he plays a part in it. It's mostly that Maroni knows I'm an imposter. And that it was me that stole his money.

I don't think he likes me very much.

I'm just waiting for something to go wrong as I leave Vee's penthouse, the rest of her stuff in tow. But, by the time I make it to the bus stop, I've relaxed a little. I can't decide which day I should leave. I'd like to leave the day after tomorrow, which is when I _would _be ready. The only thing holding me back is Dent. I promise I'd/Vianca would see him before I completely disappear out of his life. Which would've been relatively easy...

If he hadn't turned out to be a crime fighting rodent.

But, c'est la vie.

Guess I'll have to take a little trip to county one of these days (soon days, 'cause I really want to get the hell out of here).

I get off the bus at 7:45 pm and though it's spring, the cloudy day is already making the sky seem like early evening. In an hour it will likely be completely dark out. I climb the stairs to my apartment, then stop abruptly at the sound of voices. Voices that are right near my apartment. And aren't speaking English.

_OhmyfuckingshitI'msoscrewed_

I press myself against the wall a moment, weighing my options.

One: Stay here and get caught

Two: Run back down the stairs

Three: Run across the hall to the elevator

One is no good because these guys are really bad news and likely aren't too happy with me. Just trust me on this one.

Two is bad because they'll hear me, give chase then I'll panic, fall, either die or get kidnapped then die at their hands.

That leaves Three.

_Inhale_

_... I SAID INHALE!_

_Good, now exhale_

_Three..._

_Two..._

_One..._

I zoom across the hall, and past the men; there are four of them. They are stunned for a millisecond, then they shout and dash after me. Their at my heels, hollering at me in a language I don't understand but I do recognize.

Romanian.

As in gypsies.

Or vampires.

Neither very pleasant though.

I feel fingers catch my sweater's hood (it's really big and bulky and very comfy), and I reach into my satchel and pull out my gun as I'm wrenched back by my hood. I choke but whirl around and aim for my assailant's shoulder. I shoot and he yelps and falls to the floor but brings me with him. We wrestle as his buddies catch up, and I quickly pistol whip the mo-fo. I jump to my feet only to be sent back to the ground by a solid punch to the face. I never let go of my gun though. I feel a shoe on my back and angry voices. My lip is split; I lick away the blood with relish, the coppery taste urging me on. I snap up and grab the guy's ankle, give it a brisk twist and he falls to the ground with a shout. I jump up and shoot the other two; both in the legs. As for ankle guy, I bend down and punch him in the face so hard I split my knuckles.

An eye for an eye.

Or rather, a face for a face.

I straighten up and survey my mess. Two out of four of them are unconscious. The others are shouting. My head snaps in the direction of the stairs and I heard hurried footsteps and voices.

Time to skedaddle.

I sprint to the elevator, thanking my lucky stars, again, for track in high school. I get into the elevator right as three more men burst into the hallway. They are all dark skinned and distinctly Romanian, born and bred. They spot me as the elevator door slides shut. If my face didn't hurt so much I'd smirk at them. But alas...

Okay, I can't just go down to the bottom floor, 'cause they'll be waiting for me. I bring up an image of the map of this apartment building in my head, and search for the closest room with a fire escape. There's one right above me, but it'll be safer to go to the one after that.

The elevator dings open and I poke my head out, seeing of the coast is clear. It is; I pull up my hood, secure my satchel over one shoulder and click the safety off my gun. I slink cautiously to the last room at the end of this hall. I come to the door, and though I'm loathe to do this, I knock on the door and when a woman a little older than me opens the door. I shove my gun in her face.

"Move," I growl, motioning with my gun. She's shaken but smart and backs away, her hands up. I nod to her, silently thanking her before climbing out her window and down her fire escape. I bound down many flights of stairs, the rusty steps groaning under my weigh and I can't help but think of all that junk-food I ate last night.

I make it to the bottom of the fire escape and find myself in an alley. I stop to listen; I hear voices nearby. Heavy Romanian voices. Their accents are very recognizable and for that I'm grateful. I, using my inner ninja (and likely failing at it), press myself the brick wall and scoot down it before peeking over the corner. I squeak and pull back when I see several Romany's standing in front of my apartment building, all arguing with each other... All with guns.

I check my own gun and see I have several rounds left, and more in my satchel. I decide that I'll just go and take my chances in simply running the opposite way. Yeah, until I hear more voices coming from the way I was about to go. I look to my left and see a tall gate. I consult my 'map' of the alleys in my head and realize right behind that gate is a parking lot.

... Remember what I said about knowing how to hot wire a car...

I make very slow, likely noisy work of climbing the fence. But, hey, I'm a runner, not a climber. I hear hurried footsteps behind me and I climb faster. I swing over the top of the gate and I see men round a corner and spot me. I look down; it's a pretty long drop. But...

I jump

Luckily I bend my knees so when I land only a small wave of pressure passed through me. I don't give myself time to recover as I'm shoot like a bullet into the parking lot. For some reason there really isn't all that many cars in this lot. There's an ancient looking Cadillac, a monster Hummer (_GAS GUZZLER!),_ a blue and faded Camry and an evil looking Harley.

So, here are my options:

Take the Cadillac and have it likely die on you 'cos it's so old

Take the Hummer and kill the earth

Take the Harley and end up killing myself

Or look like a douche and take the Camry...

I think I'll risk looking like a douche.

I skedaddle on over to the Camry and duck behind it, hoping that my pursuer's didn't see me...

Ugh.

They did

_Fantastic_

I hear someone approaching the Camry and I hop up, pointing my gun at them. My gut twists when I see it's a little old guy.

_Twice_ today I have pointed my rifle at innocents.

I'm not havin' a good one today.

The lil old dude's crinkled eyes widen and he wheezes, lifting his arms in the air

"Gimme you're keys," I gruffly, and I hear the Romany's climbing the fence.

"P-please, don't hurt me," lil oldie pleads, his voice no more than a whimper

I officially hate myself.

"Give me the keys and I won't," I promise, gesturing with my guns. He nods feverishly, rifling in his coat's pocket frantically. Finally I hear a tinkling sound, just as I hear the Romany's land on the ground.

"I'm sorry for this," I mutter to Lil Oldie, "Now run off,"

I don't want my pursuers to get a hold of my Lil Oldie.

He hesitates, and I shoot at his feet and yell at him to get out of here. He obeys and I rush to open the car. The Romany's are very close; close enough that they could easily shoot me. But they don't and that worries me.

They want me alive.

And I don't think it's 'cos they want to enjoy my company.

I finally open the car, get in and start it (I'm relieved that I don't have to hot wire it).

Gun shots sound out.

Ho shit, there shooting at the douchey Camry!

I put it into drive and press down on the gas pedal, and zoom on out of there, leaving behind a cloud of dirt and very angry men. One chases after the car and is pretty fucking fast 'cause he's gaining. I roll down my window, poke my head out and shoot at him, catching him in the hip. Down he go's. The others run off, without bothering to aid there fallen comrade.

Jackasses.

I pull out of the parking lot and onto the street, racing away.

I don't make it very far when a black SUV suddenly rushes out of an alley way and smashes into the back of my car. I scream as the car spins, but I compose myself and keep bulleting down the road, the SUV hot on my tail. I swerve and make a jerky turn down a different street, only to swerve again and turn back. I do that again when the SUV turns, and again and again until we're going around circles. Then I stopped circling them and rammed into them, hoping to destroy their car...

It doesn't work, but the force of the hit pushes the SUV backward slightly, and it hits a clearly unstable street light, because it falls onto the car, and crushes it.

Satisfied, and very much thankful for going go-karting and watching the Monster Truck Rally's, I drive away. I make several turns to ensure they can't pursue me.

Then, a thought occurs to me...

_Why is the street so empty?_

I can't ponder this thought too long as the shrill cry of siren meets my ears and I see red and blue light's in my side mirrors.

_... Well shit_

I really _can't_ be arrested, but I'm running low on gas and I'd never lose them. So, I pull off to the side and pray like Gramma taught me.

The officer, a cranky but otherwise good looking man with mocha coloured hair and in his early thirties comes to my window, and I roll it down.

"M'am," he sounds pretty friggin' exasperated, "Can I see your license?"

"Uh..."

"Do you have a license for that gun?"

"Well it-"

"M'am, we got a call 'bout a stolen vehicle. Did you steal this car?"

"Um, I-"

"And are you aware that all streets in this area are closed off?"

"No-"

"M'am please step out of the vehicle," he orders. I sigh heavily, but obey. He quickly snatches the gun and my satchel away. I fight back tears; I've never been arrested before.

I almost was two years ago, after Vee and I got a little tipsy and we kept harassing the school campus security guard. We kept taking his baton and playing monkey in the middle with it. I'm sure you know who the monkey was.

"M'am, I'm placing you under arrest," he announces, and takes out a menacing pair of hand cuffs. I turn and he locks them onto me, then leads me to his car, reading me my rights. He ducks my head and I sit down in the back of the cop car. He gets in and begins to drive.

"What's your name?" Officer Interrupter (great nickname, huh) asks briskly.

I remain silent.

"Fine. If that's the way you wanna play it. We'll eventually figure it out. Just not tonight." he says.

"Why not?" I blurt curiously. He looks at me through the driver's window.

"We're all too busy. The only reason why I even bothered to come and get you is 'cause you were likely going to be in the way,"

"Way of wha-"

"Haven't you been watching the news?" Officer Interrupter strikes again.

"N-"

"We're moving Bat – Dent to county tonight, and we ordered civilians to stay off the streets. They need to be cleared and you were in one of the main streets that they're taking. I needed to get you off." he explains, rolling his eyes at me.

I _hate_ when people do that.

I don't have an issue doing it myself at people, but I hate when people do it at me.

So I'm a hypocrite

Come at me.

I remain quiet a second, then ask, "Do you think the Joker's gonna show up,"

"We're taking all the precautions," he says gravely, indirectly answering my question. I nod and we lapse into silence until we reach the MCU.

"MCU? Am I really major crime mat-"

"You shot at an old man and stole his car," O. I reminds me, his look one of disgust as he pulls me out of the car.

Oh... yeah...

I hate myself.

"You gonna tell me you're name?" he asks as we trot up the stairs to the building. I shake my head and he grunts under his breath. He leads me into the MCU and pulls me along. The receptionist looks up from his porno mag and hollers to O.I, "Hey, Fleefe, where ya takin 'er?"

"Cage," O.I (or rather, _Fleefe_) answers bringing us deeper into the building.

... Cage?

Oh,_ cage_.

Fleefe walks me towards two cells that very much resemble cages. He pulls out several keys and first unlocks my cuffs, then unlocks the cage door. I protest weakly when he tosses my bag onto a desk. I pray to God and Jeezus he doesn't look through it. My Brunhilda Shvenson ID is still in there, not to mention the- _fucking_- Folder!...

I think I'm pretty much fucked. What think you?

"If you just told me your name, I wouldn't have to put you here," he tells me, prodding me inside.

I very much wish to stick my tongue out him.

He closes the Cage door and I submissively sit down on the bench. I put my hood up, tucking in all of my long hair. Fleefe walks to the desk where my satchel is, puts my gun in a drawer, locks it, then turns on a TV with the news on it. Some chick with dyed orangey-red hair named Victoria Vale is rambling on about Dent and his confession and arrest, and about speculations of the Joker showing up tonight.

Seemingly bored, Fleefe changes the channel to a Pittsburgh vs. Toronto hockey game.

_Bleh_

I'm in for a looooong night, so I shift to make myself more comfortable. I focus on the hockey game, secretly rooting for the Leafs when a thought comes to mind.

_What the heck happened to the 'Must Have's'?_

**Alrighty, so the cynical readers who absolutely despise sue's (as do I, I feel you all) is probably asking 'How the heck is she able to fight (sorta), shoot a gun and drive a car like a stuntman?'**

**All will be revealed later. Patience is a lovely, if not annoying, thing. Well, I guess I can explain the car thing, or rather remind you. Rumour did mention that she Go-Karted and watched monster truck... Yeah, I know, terrible reason but, heh, there won't be another car chases like that again (THANK GOD) where Rumour is driving so I'm not too worried.**

**Also that comment about the Mexican and tacos wasn't meant to offend . I just added that in there cuz I was craving taco's while typing this *shrugs*. Also, I know the song **_**Ghosts and Stuff **_**didn't exist in 2008 but I'm kind of treating this as though it's in present time, but that isn't important.**

**And the hockey thing with Crosby was a shout-out to my hockey obsessed friends. We canucks love our hockey.**

**Annnnnnywaaaaaaays, reviews feed the muse and, admittedly, my ego. They make my heart a-flutter, my face heat up and my breathing intensify... It's not pretty to look upon... R&R**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	7. Chapter 7

**So, not as many reviews for the last chappy... I blame the lack of Joker, the excessive amount of a smug Italian, the agonizingly brief amount of the Man-Bat, and the horrendous action sequences. Sigh, I don't much like that chapter but it was necessary. **

**Anywho, to compensate for his absence in the last chapter, there is a TON of the Joker in this one. Alrighty, read, review, eat, drink, and be merry...**

**Disclaimer: Not yet, but when I take over the world, I WILL own TDK... Just you... wait...**

Chpt. 7** Ignorance vs. the Fanciful**

_When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying "Damn, that was fun" ~ Groucho Marx_

Would it be an understatement to say I'm REALLY FUCKING BORED?

...

Yes, I think it would.

The only company I have is Fleefe but he keeps yelling at the TV and some player named _Crosby._ In all honesty I think he's forgotten about me. I'll admit, I've done an excellent job of not attracting any attention to myself, what with the hoodie and all.

Also, my Cleithrophobia is _really_ starting to get to me. And when that occurs, bad things generally start to happen...

You've. Been. Warned.

~/~

About two hours later the once quiet police head quarters is filled with noise. Officers running around; making calls, talking through walkie-talkie's, shouting. The words I can make out through all the noise are: Bat, Truck, Copter, Down and, I think, Bazooka.

~/~

I am terribly sorry for complaining about lack of company before, because now I have _way_ too much. From what I gather, several of the Joker's goons have been arrested. And guess where they were put?

_Yeah, F my life. And F my phobia_

Well, at least they only put three clowns in my cage. All the others were put in the one behind me. Also, I officially _love_ my over sized black hooded sweatshirt. It's so bulky that it hides most evidence of me being female at all. And if I tip my face down just so, you can't see my face at all due to the hood. So, the clowns aren't giving me any issues. But, I truly think that Fleefe has forgotten about me. See, I don't think he'd purposely leave me in here at the mercy of these thugs. I don't think he hates me _that_ much.

I survey the clowns. In the garish lights of the room they look ridiculous rather than menacing. Although there's this one kinda pudgy clown that makes me uneasy. He keeps mumbling about _lights _and someone _reaching into him_. I make sure I sit on the bench _real_ far away from him.

~/~

A few minutes later there is a very large commotion, and I notice all the officers are looking rather nervous but determined at the same time. Fleefe's barking orders, yelling at an anxious looking man to open the Cage, _my_ Cage door and make sure all the prisoners (me + clowns) are secure.

All heads jerk to the left, and down the hallway comes an army of officer's and... The S.W.A.T?

_Why do they..._

Oh.

_Oh_

Well, shit.

Being dragged by two burly officer's is none other than Wanted Number One; the- _fucking-_ Joker.

I expected him to be laughing.

Or pissed.

Hell, I never, _ever, _expected him to be caught.

But, he's none of the above.

Instead, Gotham's King of Clown's is allowing himself to be dragged in, a look of sheer boredom on his smeared face. He's not making a peep; the officer's are causing all the racket actually. Yelling at me and my cell mate's to _back off_.

Will do, sirrah.

In fact, I will back up into the farthest corner of this cell.

The Officers fling the Joker to the ground in front of the Cage. He lands unceremoniously on his knees and elbows, and I'm sure that was likely painful, but his poker face is fantastic.

"Search 'im," an older officer with grey hair and air of superiority to him commands. Two S.W.A.T are on him in seconds, tearing the purple jacket off the Joker, and he allows it, simply sneering at them.

"Get up," Superior Officer barks at the defeated clown. The Joker's eyes roll to him sardonically but with a lick of his lips and a small shrug he lifts himself to his feet; agilely but lethargically. The S.W.A.T get back to it, tossing the officer's his coat while they run gluttonous hands all over the Joker's waistcoat, hexagonal shirt and - _awkward - _trousers.

"Search his shoes," Superior Officer reminds them, baring his teeth at the Joker. The Joker raises his brow at this but that's it. He cracks his neck and bends down himself to take them off; _saving_ the officer's the trouble. He extends his arms, offering the shoes up to them innocently, and they snatch them away. They thoroughly search them before ever-so-rudely hurling them back at the Joker. They bounce off his chest, and he squints one eye, but calmly reaches down to put them back on.

"Gloves. Off." Superior Officer snaps. The Joker tugs them off with his teeth, tossing them to the waiting officers.

"Now hands over yah' head and back toward the cell door slowly," Superior Officer commands. The Joker purses his lips and raises his arms, backing up slowly, staring at Superior Officer with an air of slight smugness about him.

"Back off!" one of the officers hollers again.

_Alright, alright_

Hollering Officer opens the Cage door wide, and brutally kicks the Joker in, causing him to stumble back, but he doesn't fall. Instead, he dusts off his waistcoat, and gives Hollering Officer a 'really?' look before casually taking a seat on the middle of the bench.

This guy really is something.

He hasn't said a word and he's already gotten to the officer's, just by his lack of response to them. I bet they wanted him to lash out; give them an excuse to lash back, put the clown in his place. Also, that air of carelessness and arrogance is undoubtedly annoying and confusing.

And the most amazing part? His dignity has totally been kept. It's the cops that look like douche bags. But no, _no,_ the fuckin' clown is the calm, dignified person here.

I pull my hood around my face more securely; I'm only a few feet away from the Joker, huddled in the corner to his left. I watch him warily, just _waiting _for him to do, well, something. Anything! I mean I cannot believe he's just given up, given in. Not to say I don't want him to; the man deserves to be locked up, the key thrown away, never to see the light of day (_did I just rhyme?)._ But, from past experiences I just know that he likely has something up his sleeve. That's what I'm waiting for, that's what I'm mentally preparing for.

So, I keep an eye on him.

The Joker sits serenely on the Cage bench, that air of arrogance and dignity still surrounding him. Well, maybe not arrogance, but rather confidence, maybe even satisfaction. His knees are slightly spread, his upper body bent over a little. He takes a moment to roll up the sleeves of his periwinkle under shirt, flashing some aggressively muscular forearms. Now, normally forearms aren't the impressive or threatening part of a man's arm, the biceps are. But the Joker's forearms, for me, inspire visions of violence and pain. After rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, he lets his arms and hands dangle between his legs.

And he just sits.

Not still though. Every once and awhile he'll switch up positions; leaning back, crossing his ankles, sitting on his hands, crossing one leg over the other, spreading his legs out in front of him. He bounces his knee, licks his lips, clenches and unclenches his fists, cracks his knuckles and neck. He just doesn't _stop_.

Content that he's actually just sitting (_for now)_ I let my eyes wander to what the officer's are doing. The room isn't as full anymore, except for a few officers pacing about the Cages, sneering and insulting the clowns. But one, a pretty female Asian cop, sticks on a pair of latex gloves, and picks up the Joker's royal purple suit jacket. She then carefully begins picking through the pockets, delicately laying out whatever she finds on the desk.

First she takes out, get this, a _pocket watch_, like one Sherlock Holmes or something would carry around. After that, the only things she finds are knives.

A _lot_ of them.

All different kinds too, although nothing too big like a butcher knife.

There are a couple steak knives, butterfly knives, a scalpel or two, a box cutter, a Swiss Army knife, a bowie knife, a K-Bar, a potato peeler (_um?) _and several more.

And last but not least, she pulls out the clown's handy-dandy switchblade, turning it in her hand with morbid curiosity, before setting it down with the rest of them. A few moments later, another commotion grabs my attention and in comes-

Wait...

_No fuckin way_

Gordon?

Lieutenant James Gordon?

_But I saw him die..._

I look to the Joker to judge his reaction but he doesn't really react, except that the corner of one side of his mouth lifts in a half smirk, half sarcastic sneer.

Apparently, he isn't surprised.

But then again, does _anything_ surprise this guy?

"Stand away!" Gordon yells, "All of you! I don't want _anything_ for his mob lawyer to use, understand?"

The cops reluctantly but respectfully back away from the cells, staring transfixed at the thought-to-be dead man. Then, in walks the mayor, who to me looks like he wears mascara and guy-liner.

Which is just plain weird. I mean punk's and pirates work the look, but on a mayor it's just wrong.

Smiling, Garcia shakes Gordon's hand.

"Back from the dead?"

"I couldn't risk my family's safety," Gordon explains a little sheepishly. The Mayor glances over at the Joker, who's now looking up at the ceiling like there's something real interesting up there.

"What do we got?" Garcia asks, still staring at the Joker.

"_Nothing," _Gordon begins, disgruntled, "No matches in prints, DNA, dental. Clothing is custom made, no labels-..."

_Maybe he goes to Peaches Stitches_

"... Nothing in his pockets but knives and lint. No name, no other aliases... Nothing,"

The Mayor claps him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Go home, Gordon, the clown'll keep till morning," the Mayor advises, "Get some rest- you're gonna need it."

Gordon looks at him, puzzled as Garcia continues.

"Tomorrow, you take the big job," he beams at Gordon, "You don't have a say in the matter," then louder so all can hear, "_Commissioner_ Gordon,"

The cops whoop and start cheering and clapping while Garcia shakes Gordon's hand again. Gordon looks flustered but proud. Even I have the urge to clap but I'd probably get batoned if I tried.

Someone else apparently has the same idea as me, because as the cops stop clapping, one person's loud claps sound out obnoxiously.

Everyone's eyes turn to my Cage to see the Joker, still sitting calmly, his arms outstretched, clapping loudly, a tiny, scornful smirk playing on his red mouth.

_Cheeky little bastard_

~/~

More of the Joker's men are swarmed into the MCU, to be processed I imagine. Hollering Officer, who upon further inspection of his badge is named Murphy, keeps telling Superior Officer ( he turns out to be named Stephens) how 'ugly these bastards are'. I know I'm not with them but, I'm still here so I take offence to that.

The creepy, pudgy muttering clown from earlier goes up to the bars to speak to Murphy.

"I don't feel good," he keens piteously.

"You're a cop killer. You're lucky to be feeling anything below the _neck,_" Murphy spits out nastily.

"Please!" the pudgy thug exclaims piteously.

"Stand away from the bars!" another officer, named Grunder, barks at the clown.

I just happen to be looking at the Joker after their exchange, and I see him flash a cocky little smirk before quickly hiding it by looking to his left.

Right.

At.

Me.

_Aw crap_

He frowns a little, and I quickly look away, pulling on my hood. The Joker clears his throat, trying to gain my attention but nope, I won't turn.

He can't make me.

"Gah-reeeeeeeen Eyeeeeees-s_uh,_" the Joker sing-songs quietly, but no way, I won't turn.

But he's an insistent little bugger.

For the next five minutes all I hear is the clown singing my little nickname in an irritatingly whimsical voice.

"_What?_" I finally hiss, still not turning to look at him.

"C'mere," he orders quietly, waving a hand to highlight his words.

"No," I reply firmly.

"Why not?"

"They'll think I'm in cahoots with you,"

"_Rumour_," I flinch and turn finally when he uses my 'alias', "Come. Here-_rah_."

By the look on his face I don't think he's playing around.

I quirk my lips, scan the room to make sure we haven't gained too much attention, then cautiously shuffle toward the bench. I sit on the edge of it, as far away from the Joker as I can get. He allows this, and instead scoots toward me so our elbows almost touch.

"Fancy seein' you here," he greets me, and I imagine he has a big grin on his face. I still refuse to look at him.

"This doesn't really seem like you're, ah, _scene,_" the Joker goes on, enunciating his words with a flutter of his hand. I just shrug noncommittally.

"Uh, _Rumour_... Look at-_uh _me," he says right in my ear, his green hair touching my cheek. I flinch in surprise that he's so close, and jerk my face up to look into his.

And, geez, he really needs to fix his war paint.

It is _completely _smeared. His black rimmed eyes are more grey now, one of them extending up to his forehead, mixing with the already dirty white paint there. There's a large patch of skin showing on his forehead where the paint has been completely worn off. His mouth is a faded pink now, his scars too. His hair, which is usually rather lank, is now tussled, giving him a bit of a wind-blown look. Also, I notice he almost looks _younger_ without the bulky jacket. He looks... better, almost, without it.

He smiles wickedly down at me, and I grimace a little.

"So, what _you_ in for?" he inquires, resting his face in his hand, leaning toward me.

Leaning back, I answer sullenly, "Grand theft auto, among other things,"

" Oh ho ho, you little _troublemaker_," he whoops quietly, poking my nose. I scrunch my nose, and swat his hand away; but not before noticing how long his bare fingers are, or that his hands are covered in red, white and black paint.

"Probably _nothing_ compared to what you've been up to," I sneer, forgetting that I'm supposed to be afraid of this man. I guess the fact that I'm in a place filled with law enforcement is making me cocky. The Joker raises a brow, but shrugs carelessly, rolling his tongue along the inside of his cheek. I roll my eyes and look away, pinching the bridge of my nose as a headache begins to form.

What am I going to do?

The cops will eventually force me to give them my finger prints or DNA or whatever they do, and they _can't_ find out who I am. It'll ruin everything.

_I'm so fuc-_

My thoughts are interrupted when I feel obscenely hot fingers fluttering on my face. I turn back to my cell mate, a complete 'what the fuck?' look on my face.

"What are you-"

"Fighting _and_ car-_ah_ theft? My, my, you have been busy lit-tle bee, haven'cha?" his pointer finger traces my left cheekbone. I wince; that's where I was punched. There must be one helluva bruise, 'cos the mo-fo did not go easy on me.

"_I_ didn't start it," I retort, shaking my head to get his offensive little (_loooooong)_ appendages off me.

"Mhm," he nods, giving me a snarky little smile.

_Stupid clown_

"So, why'd ya stah-eal a car?" he asks, as though we're discussing something innocent like sports or the weather, rather than crime.

"Because," I mumble snidely, still pissed at the clown's earlier, well for lack of a better word, _bitchiness._

"Beh-cuuuuz why-_ah_?" the Joker drawls, prodding me in the side. I don't really feel it because of the bulkiness of my sweatshirt, but it still annoys me.

"I have a headache, _clown_," I hiss venomously, staring him dead in the eye, "And you're not helping it,"

I move to get up and scurry back to my corner, when the Joker lashes out and grabs my hand in a bone-crushing grip, yanking me back down beside him. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to ensure I don't make a sound. His hand still crushing mine, the Joker leans into me, his mouth pressed to my ear.

"Do I need to re-min-_dah _who you're dealin' with here?" he growls menacingly against my ear, his hot breath sending slithering shivers down my back. His long nails begin to dig into my knuckles and I whimper in a mixture of terror and pain.

"Do you think-_kuh_ you're _safe_ here cos' of all the, ah, all the cops?" his malicious words vibrate uncomfortably against my skin, "Because then you are very,_ very_ wrong, Rumour dear," he takes my chin in his other hand and whips my face to his. His nails dig further into my skin; I can feel blood dripping down my hand.

"See," he continues in a hushed tone, but it couldn't have been more terrifying even if he was yelling, "I have _people_ here. I have people eve-ery-where-_rah_. There isn't a single _spot-uh_ in all of Gotham I don't own,"

I wince, seeing as his digging into me is extremely painful, but I counter, "That's very grand and all but that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with me. _You _have nothing to do with me,"

_Harsh, yes, but that's just the throbbing pain in my hand talking_

He comes toward me, his mouth inches from mine, and his nose actually pressed to mine. I try to pull my hand out of his, but he retaliates by adjusting his hold on it, ripping into the flesh of my palm now with his nails. I yelp softly in pain but continue to glare at the Joker. I'm taken aback, though, by the strange fire-like lights burning in his tunnel black eyes.

"No, see, you're terribly mis-tak-en there, Green Eyes," he hisses, his mouth brushing against mine as he speaks. His tongue flicks out to trace his scars, touching my mouth in the process.

_..._

"At this point-_tuh_ we have _a lot _to do with, ah, one an-oth-er," he stops digging his nails into me but doesn't release me.

"Why-_uh_ do we keep runnin' into each other, hm?" he asks, and I think he's being a little condescending.

"Coincidence," I bite out through tightly grit teeth, trying my best not to make my lips touch his too much. He chuckles darkly and shakes his head.

"Only the ignorant buh-lieve in coincidences," he tells me, stroking the right side of my jaw with his thumb.

"And only the fanciful believe in things like fate, if that's what you're getting at," I quip, quietly but heatedly.

"Maybe," he whispers, coming in closer to press his mouth to the bruise on my cheek, "But we, ah, we-..."

He's cut off as Murphy hits the bars and shouts, "Alright, clown we're takin' ya to be questioned. Everyone else back the hell off. That means you, emo,"

I'm guessing _I'm_ the emo.

The Joker scowls a moment, but releases me. I clutch my now freed, not to mention bleeding, hand to my chest. While Murphy unlocks the Cage, the Joker whispers to me, "A word of advice-suh. Get as far away from _him_," he points to the pudgy guy in our cell, "And as close to _me_ as possible, as soon as possible,"

"What?" I say, completely confused.

"Just repaying my debt," he smirks, then stands as Murphy opens the door to escort him to the interrogation room, wherever that is.

Huh, I had actually completely forgotten that he _owes_ me, whatever that means. I think the exact moment I forgot was when a psychopath's lips became _thoroughly, _and rather forcibly, associated with mine.

I watch as the Joker is escorted away, a strangely at ease expression on his painted face. He gives me a sideways glance before he disappears from my view. And I decide.

_Time to plan Escape #3 _

~/~

Really, the best I got for my next grand escape is basically (_exactly_) the same as my first, and I'm still really frigging surprised that even worked the first time.

But, you know, best not dwell on the past.

I wait til' a certain man with hair the colour of a mochachino comes back into the room, carrying a box of pizza. I walk up to the bars, keeping my distance from the pudgy thug.

"Bright lights," Pudgy Thug hoots at me and I curl my nose and furrow my brow at him. I clear my throat loudly then call over to him, "Um, Fleefe?"

He looks up, puzzled when his eyes land on me. Then, I pull off my hood, letting my knotted hair tumble out

"Can I use the restroom? I'm kinda, um, bleeding a little," I hold up my hand sheepishly, which is indeed bleeding quite profusely. Fleefe's eyes widen comically, and I hold back a smirk.

Huh, so he _did_ forget about me.

How rude.

The pretty Asian cop makes a funny little noise of distress and rushes over to me, muttering in what I suspect is her native tongue. She fumbles with the lock then hurries to me, bustling me out of the Cage.

"Fleefe, you ass!" she yells, inspecting my hand. There are tiny crescent marks on my knuckles and palm where the clown fuckin' dug into my skin with his claws.

"You just left her in there! How could you just leave her in there? Look what happened to her!" she freaks out, glaring at the still dumbfounded Fleefe.

"I-I didn't-"

"Shut it, Fleefe," she snaps, then turns her attention to me, "Come on, sweetie. I'll take you to see officer Mankes. He dropped out of vet school before joining the force. He'll take care of you,"

Awesome. I'm going to go see an animal doctor. What does that make me?

A short while later the woman, who tells me her name is officer Ren, leads me into a tiny office. Sitting at the strangely empty and neat desk is a man in his mid-forties with thinning sandy blond hair and crinkled grey eyes. He looks up at Ren, then me, then my bleeding hand. He's up and my hand's in his a millisecond later.

"Dear lordy, what happened?" he asks me, visibly disturbed.

"Fleefe forgot about her and left her at the mercy of the clowns. They likely attacked her," Ren explains for me. I decide I will remain silent.

"What's you're name, sweetie?" Mankes asks me kindly. He reminds me a little of my uncle, the one who calls me Bunny.

I miss him, a lot.

I don't answer Mankes.

"Poor girl is traumatized," Ren exclaims dejectedly, like I'm someone real close to her rather than someone she just met.

"Come over here. I'll clean those up and bandage them real good," Mankes takes my shoulder and leads me gently to the chair behind his desk.

"Well, you're in capable hands. I'm going to go kick Fleefe's worthless ass now," Ren smiles sweetly.

_I like her_

Mankes mutters a goodbye and begins rummaging through his desk. He pulls out medical alcohol (_well that's convenient... and weird) _and gauze. First he wipes the blood away and stunts the bleeding. Then he pours the alcohol onto a handkerchief (_does it have initials on it... weird)_ then takes my battered hand with the utmost gentleness.

"This is going to sting a whole hell of a lot," Mankes warns me. I nod briefly and bite my other hands thumb. He presses the damp handkerchief to my bloody knuckles.

_HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT ON A STICK HELD BY MARY MOTHER OF PEARL_

I don't make a peep...

"Almost done," Mankes murmurs reassuringly, then presses the handkerchief to my palm.

_SON OF WHORE IN BABYLON WHO'S FUCKING JEEZUS CHRAST_

Not a single peep...

"There we are. Now they won't get infected," Mankes informs me gently as he wraps my hand in gauze. I nod and smile graciously, upset with myself with what I'm about to do.

"Alright, let's take you back to Fleefe so he can decide what to do with yo-" He is interrupted by me clobbering him on the head with a paper hole puncher.

Really hard too.

He's out instantly, crumpled on the ground, reminding me of a dead hawk I once saw on the ground. I kneel down and press two fingers against Mankes' pulse on his neck; it beats strongly against my fingers.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, wincing at the trickle of blood flowing down his forehead. I stand and walk to the door, peering out. There's no one around, so I slink back the way we had come; to the Cage. I stop at the end of the hall and peek around the corner into the room. I'm surprised by what I see.

Ren, Grunder and some paramedics are kneeling on the ground, hovering over an unconscious Pudgy Thug. Seeing as their attention is elsewhere at the moment, I survey the room, then find what I'm looking for.

There on the desk, several feet away is my satchel. I hop on spot for a moment, gathering all my gall and craftiness before getting on all fours and crawling quickly across the floor to the desk. I hide behind it a moment, then pop up quickly and snatch the satchel in my arms. I sling it over one shoulder. I tug one of the drawer's, the one that has my gun, but it won't budge so I give up. I have another back at the apartment anyways. I was about to crawl back the way I came, when I hear yet_ another_ commotion, coming from behind the door at the opposite end of the room. I think I recognize one of those voices; it's not exactly a voice that is difficult to indentify.

So, I make a rash decision, all based upon the word of a psychotic clown.

'_Get as close to me as possible'_

And without further ado, I dart across the room, not caring too much that the cops might see me. I reach the door and wrench it open. The sight that meets me is even more surprising than the one earlier. The Joker is at the other side if the room, with Stephens in a headlock, a shard of glass to his throat, and a phone pressed to his ear. Murphy is here too, pointing a gun hesitantly at the clown, along with a couple of other officers I don't recognize.

Then the world seems to erupt.

The force of the explosion sends me sprawling to the ground, hitting my head in the process. I feel a flash of heat against my back as the world continues to shake. I hold my already injured head, and curl into the fetal position for protection. Papers and shards of wood and metal fly everywhere, cutting into my clothes. Books and other miscellaneous items fall and bang to the ground. Paper's fly everywhere, and the rumbles rock my body. Finally, the explosion seems to subside. My vision is blurred along the edges as I look up. My eyes are instantly on the only figure still standing.

I can't take my eyes off him.

The Joker slowly lifts his bowed head as dust and paper's flutter about in the wreckage. His posture is a little tense, like he was preparing himself for the explosion, but besides that he seems almost serene.

Calm amongst the chaos.

Completely at home with the destruction.

And it's _mesmerizing_.

Even as my vision begins to become murky, and the pounding in my head increases agonizingly, my eyes are still locked onto the Joker. His dark, bottomless eyes meet mine for a brief second, then the world rushes at me, and all that's left is darkness and silence.

_**CAH-LIFF HANGER! **_** I'm sure you all know where this is heading. From here on out, it will be pretty much non-stop TDK sequences, TDK character interaction and action (but not like the failed attempts in the last chapter). I'm excited for the next chapter... More of the clown, and a certain coin-loving DA... **

**P.S When she says 'Chrast' its on purpose. Rumour is a just a weirdo.**

**Review! You'll get the next chapter sooner and you'll make my day. Win-win.**

**Btw, this is the revised version. I dislike mistakes, so tell me if you see some, mmmkay?**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Heh, so this one's uber long. It's not like I mean to, but yanno... Once the fingers meet the keyboard, it's hard to end the affair. And what a satisfying affair it is *winks suggestively*... Er, yeah...**

**Anyways, thank you all for the reviews and the alerts/faves, much appreciated. We are starting to get to the nitty-gritty, non-stop climactic stuff here people. **

**Oh, and I got my first job *dances like a goose (and they don't dance well, let me tell you)* so updates may not be as quick. But, yanno, mah jobs pretty awesome. I get to dress up as a Victorian age lass and teach people about one of Canada's delicacies, maple-freaking-syrup! *crowd cheers***

**Also, one of the Joker's lines is based off a quote from _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._**

**Now, enough jabber outta me, let you eyes wander down the page and, well, read!**

**Disclaimer: Well, I wouldn't have needed to get a job if I owned TDK , now would I? **

Chpt.8 **The Earth Says Hello**

_When the darkness gets easier, you know you're sinking deeper, becoming dead yourself ~ Lucy Christopher (Stolen)_

You know how in literature, movies, shows, and in stories people tell, how after fainting you're supposedly confused and don't remember what happened?

Yeah, not me.

The moment I come to, I remember everything that has happened tonight (if _is_ still night time). The only thing I'm confused by is the sensation of being rocked slightly. Like being on a carnival ride...

Or a poorly driven car...

Oh, for the love of Jeezus, have I been kidnapped again?

I don't open my eyes just yet. My head hurts and I'm afraid that wherever I am will be bright and, you know, I don't think my poor battered head could take that.

So I try my best to assess the situation I'm in with my eyes closed.

Well, let's see.

I seem to be in a strange, but no less comfortable position; my torso is laying flat but my lower half is slightly twisted, like when you lay down on a bed or something that you don't really fit on. My head seems to be resting on something hard and incredibly warm, but again, it's not uncomfortable.

There's a faint smell of smoke and gasoline; what I imagine an explosion smells like. Well, I guess I don't have to _imagine_ anymore, 'cos I just was_ in_ one.

I'm not sure whether to be horrified by this or to be slightly excited.

I mean, c'mon. Explosions are pretty cool.

And I _survived_ this one! That's pretty cool too.

But, then again, said explosion likely killed many people including two people I actually like; Ren and Mankes. I mean sure, I hit Mankes over the head with a hole puncher but still, the guy did help me out...

I'm torn.

Should I be thankful for the explosion because it got me out of being questioned and processed by the police, or should I be horrified and pissed off with the man who made the building explode?

The sensation of someone playing with my hair rocks me out of my thoughts. I try my best to keep a poker face, but then again, I'm not very good at card games.

"Hiya, Starshine," A grating, and annoyingly clowny voice chimes. I peel my eyes open hesitantly and wince.

"The earth says heh-_llooo," _The Joker grins evilly down at me. My brows knit together. He's at an odd angle; towering over me, like _right_ over me. He has to tip his chin to his chest to be able to look at me, causing his garish, slightly wavy hair to hang around his smudgy face.

After a moment of pure blondness, I figure it out.

My...

Head...

Is...

Lying...

On _the_ Joker's...

Fuckin' lap...

My eyes widen and I squeak in mortification, and try to scramble up. I lift my torso up, and black dots fill my vision as my head becomes light headed. I groan, pressing my palm to my pounding head. I sway dangerously in my awkward sitting position, and I feel hands coil around my shoulders.

"Oh-ho, whoopsie-daisies," the Joker giggles as he guides me back down to lay my head back on his lap. I mumble a protest but the vile pain in my head stops me from struggling.

"Ya hit you're noggin pretty good there, Green Eyes," the infuriating clown tells me, laughter all too evident in his pitchy voice.

"Ungh... Explosion," I grumble unintelligibly, pressing my thumb and pointer to my closed eye lids.

"Why-_ah,_ yes, there was," The Joker affirms, and I'm pretty sure he's mocking me. I rub at my eye lids a bit, then simply lay there, my eyes still closed.

"Ah ta, ta, ta," the maniac clown chides, a finger pressing into the skin underneath one of my eyes, "Keep those peepers open-_nah_," I whine in response, but the evil finger rubs at the skin under my eye, creating uncomfortable friction. With a pithy, likely unintelligent remark, my eyes blink open and I pout up at the Joker.

"Don't want'cha to never wake up again, in case ya got a con-cush-ion, do we?" the Joker says, touching a sore spot on my head.

"Fuck," I yelp, "Ow! Don't touch!"

He puts his hands up in surrender. As my muddled mind clears again, I notice a few more things; one is that he has his purple gloves back on, and two his purple jacket is draped over me. It's a little worse for wear, what with a few singes and some grime on it. I wonder how the jacket didn't die in the explosion. Maybe it's flame proof?

Unlikely, but that would be cool.

"Hey," a hand lightly slaps my cheek, "You coherent?"

"Yes," I snap. At least, I think I am.

"Follow my finger," the Joker instructs.

_Seriously?_

I sigh, and watch carefully as the leather clad finger moves back and forth slowly in front of my face. My eyes follow it relatively easily. The finger moves faster, alternating between back-and-forth to up-and-down. My eyes continue to follow. The fingers then start to zoom around, going this way and that. Up, sideways, down, left, diagonal, right. It twirls and rockets. All the while the stupid purple and green goof laughs riotously.

Fed up, I grab the finger in my hand and say sternly, "Stop that," I hold his finger until I'm nearly sure he won't try it again, then I release it. Slowly this time, I sit up, turning my body so I'm sitting at the other end of the car, my feet planted on the ground and my shoulders slumped against the window. I carefully shed the jacket off me and place it gently on the middle seat beside me.

"You're pupils are equal, so, yeah, I don't think-_kuh_ you have a concussion," he deduces for me, his tongue tracing the curve of his bottom lip. I nod curtly. Should I thank him?

"What, you're a doctor now?" I ask haughtily.

Huh, I can't honestly say where this sudden 'tude has come from. You would think I had learned my lesson earlier, with the whole hand thing. His eyes narrow and I gulp fretfully.

"Yanno, you're not a very, uh, gurrrr-rateful person, are ya?" the Joker utters irritably, tonguing his sharp eye-tooth contemplatively. I have the decency to blush.

"Sorry," I whisper, tucking my hair behind my ear, "And... um... Thanks," it sounds like a question. The Joker's eyes remain narrowed but the corners of his mouth curl into a feral grin.

"Uh-huh," he says, like he doesn't believe me.

"I mean it," I insist, "I mean, sure you're methods were a little more deadly than I would've liked, but it, uh... It got me out of there... Um..." I drift off, unsure of what else to say. The Joker purses his lips but doesn't say anything. Instead, he shifts his lanky body toward his window, and kicks the seat in front of him. It's then that I realize there are two people sitting in the front of the car. In fact, this isn't any normal car; this is a friggin' _police_ car. The person in front of the Joker is a young man; maybe five years older than me with chocolate milk skin (likely half-black, half-white) and buzzed light blond hair. In front of me is a small Chinese man, who seems to be terrified, judging by the way he's cowering in his seat.

"Maul," The Joker barks. The man, who I assume is one of the Joker's men, inclines his head to show he's listening.

"Roll down my window, would'ya? Oh, and, ah, while you're at it, turn on the sirens-_sah,_"

"Yessir," the man, _Maul_ (weird name), answers dutifully in, much to my surprise, a pleasant Irish brogue. He turns on the sirens, and the insistent, not to mention _LOUD_ wail makes my head whirl again. Then Maul rolls down the Joker's window, and with me watching, quite gape mouthed, the Joker proceeds to shove his upper body out the window. Disconcerted, I observe as the clown presses his hands to the outside of the squad car to keep his balance. He shakes his head, like a dog, and closes his eyes as the wind rustles through his slick hair. He looks... Blissful.

It's mad bliss, but bliss nonetheless.

For a man usually so intense and, well, eccentric, seeing him like this is strange... And oddly compelling. It's like I'm glimpsing a whole new-

Wait, no.

I am _not_ getting all poetic. Again.

Peeling my eyes off the deranged jester, I look out my own window, trying to figure out where we are. It's a difficult task seeing as the siren is very distracting, and my head is still a little jumbled. I catch the Chinese guy's eye in the side-view mirror on my side, and see the stark terror in his slanted eyes.

"Who's that?" I ask loudly over the siren, doubting the Joker can hear me. Ah, well no, I'm wrong. The man must have really great hearing because he pulls himself back inside, a huge smile enveloping his face.

"That," he replies matter-a-factly, pointing a finger at the frightened Chinese man, "Is my very own Asian," I frown. Well that's degrading.

"Aren'cha?" he says to the Chinese man, kicking his seat brutally. The Joker giggles when the man squeals quietly, and curls into himself, visibly trembling. I shake my head, closing my eyes with pity. I don't want to even think about what's going to happen to this unfortunate man. But, I can't get involved. I'm not a hero. I'm an imposter and a coward, only driven by my own goals. Guilt washes over me in waves, and I hang my head down between my knees, and press my palms to my face.

"Feelin' okay there, Rumy-dear?" I feel someone prod me on the forearm.

_Rumy?_

Did he just give me a nickname for my alias, which already happens to _be_ a nickname originally?

"I'm fine," I mumble. Then as an afterthought I ask, "Am I being kidnapped, by any chance?" The Joker barks out a laugh and suddenly my arms are seized and he drags me across the seat, closer to him. My eyes pop wide, and I try to wriggle free but, damn, for a seemingly skinny guy this clown is strong.

"You think-_kuh_," he says slowly, a patronizing, and toothy smile on his clowny face, "That I'm... Kidnapping you?"

"Um..."

"Oh _Rumour_," he says like I just said the most adorable thing ever, "You'd _know_ if I was, ah, _kidnapping_ you. Trust-_ah _me," his voice drops a few octaves toward the end of that sentence, becoming husky and gravelly. The now familiar but no less disturbing fire-like intensity returns to his dark eyes and I swear it sears me.

"So, you're not?" I squeak, suddenly very uncomfortable.

Maybe the Joker' right.

Maybe I do have mood-swings.

Either that or I'm PMSing.

"No, no, no," he says, releasing one of arms to flutter his hand in my face for emphasis, "I'm simply, euh, _re-paying_ you. To take ad-van-tage of you would be just..." he rolls his eyes upward, trying to think of the proper word, "Un-classy," he declares finally, "And I am _all_ about the class-_suh_," he grins, fixing his tie. I arch a brow, but don't argue about his so-called 'class'.

Quit while you're ahead, right?

"So," he goes on in a up-beat tone, taking his hands off me, and instead using one hand to cup the right side of my face, "I'm gonna es-cor-tah you home," as an afterthought, "Lil' lady," he tips his imaginary hat to me, grinning like a five-year old. My nose curls.

"Um, no offence, but I'm not too sure I want you to know where I'm staying," I say sheepishly, wincing while waiting for his reaction. I jump when he utters a zany, and well, clowny laugh. He slaps my right cheek lightly, and says fondly, "Smart girl," and kisses the end of my nose. I subtly recoil from him to check out the window. We're a few blocks from my apartment, but I'm not too sure I should go back. I mean, the Romany's may be waiting for me...

Unless.

Unless they followed after that pathetic car chase, and saw me get arrested. And, maybe even saw the MCU blow up. This is a long shot and I'll probably end up dead, but maybe I _can_ go back because they think I'm dead...

And if they are there, then I'll go all _OO7 _on their gypsy asses and whip my gun out of...

Wait.

_Wheres..._

"Where's my satchel?" I whisper, then repeat louder, on the verge of hysteria, "_Where's my satchel?_" I search around the back of the squad car, looking beneath the seat and in between the seats.

"Where is it?" I nearly yell.

_Oh fuck_

_Oh FUCK_

Without my satchel I'm royally fucked.

And without the Folder I'm literally dead.

Tears fill my eyes.

_I'm sorry, Vee._

"Hey, whoa, whoa, _whoa," _the Joker takes my hands in his, which were still searching frantically between the seats.

"You're, ah, you're bag is fine," he consoles me, like I'm a child. I shake my head frantically, stubbornly trying to pull my hands out if his.

"Maul," he snaps, his eyes never leaving mine. Without even having to be instructed, Maul reaches down, causing the car to swerve even more. I wish I had put a seat belt on. Maul extends his arm backward and - oh thank Jeezus - in his hand is my satchel. I snatch it out of his grasp, and hug it protectively to my chest, glaring at the Joker.

"Don't gimme that," he reprimands, "I didn't go through it," I narrow my eyes.

"Cross my heart," he makes the action.

_Like you have one_

"Fine," I mumble, looking out the window. Oh, geez, we passed my apartment awhile go.

"You can, um, drop me off there... Please," I say awkwardly, pointing to the street corner up ahead.

"You heard her," he prods Maul on his buzzed head, licking his chops. Maul pulls over, and I look to the door, waiting for the car to unlock. I turn back to see the Joker eyeing me impassively. His eyes drift down and stare at my bandaged hand. He grabs that hand, crushing my cuts. I wince and feel as blood starts seeping out. He begins unwinding the gauze, smacking his lips while he works.

"Woo-wee, I did-_uh_ a number on you," he chuckles, gently pressing the pad of his thumb against one of the cuts of my palm. He presses even harder, making blood dribble out. I really badly want to pull away, or say 'ow' but I feel like if I make any sudden movements, he'll explode.

I think I've done the bomb analogy before, right?

He presses deeper and deeper until there is a puddle of dark, crimson blood floating on my palm. The Joker bends in toward me, and I attempt to draw back, but his other hand pushes against my back to keep me still. I close my eyes, not sure what to expect, but knowing it won't be goo-

_OH MY JEEZUS!_

Something hot and wet trails against my palm, and my eyes tear open to see the Joker licking the blood off my hand, his eyes intently on mine. I gasp and recoil, successfully wrenching my hand away.

_Wha..._

What the fuck? Was that supposed to be threatening or sexual or something? Or maybe he's trying to psych me out?

_... Maybe he's hungry..._

I need to get out of this car. I grab the gauze, stuffing it against my hand to stop the bleeding.

"I've... I-I've gotta go," I stutter softly, looking down. I hear the locks snap up and I'm outta there a second later, slinging my satchel over my shoulder. I stumble and nearly fall, gritting my teeth when I hear high pitched giggles coming from the car. I glance back and meet eyes with the Chinese man. His eyes beg me to help him, but all I can do is give him a sympathetic glance. The other window rolls down and the Joker sticks his head out, smirking outlandishly.

"I'll, uh, I'll see ya 'round, Green Eyes," he says, saluting me. My eye twitches.

_Ha Ha, not happenin, bub_

"Alrighty then, we gotta Asian to dee-liv-er. Step on it, Maul," he hoots, and I watch as the squad car speeds away.

~/~

Well, I don't have a door.

You heard me.

I have no door.

The Romany's kicked down my door. Jackasses, right? Well, on the bright side, they never got a chance to ransack my place. I must've come upon them before they could screw around with my apartment. After I inspected my apartment, I began to search for the fallen 'Must Haves'.

And I'm still searching now.

Well, there not in my apartment.

And I'm scaling the hallway for like the fifth time. Yeah, no matter how many times I walk down the hall, the clothes still don't show up.

What's up with that?

I sigh in defeat, and trudge back to my apartment. I trudge all the way to my bed, literally fall onto it, and just like that, I'm out.

~/~

I awake several hours later, groaning. I may not have a concussion- although how good is the word of a deranged maniac?- but my head still hurts like a mo-fo. I waddle into my small kitchenette to grab an aspirin and a swig of orange juice. I lean against the door-way to the living room, and survey the mess that is Vianca's 'Must Haves'. She has a lot of friggin stuff. I grab the Folder and shuffle through it. Although I've read all of the paper's (in order because they are numbered, thankfully), I re-read a certain page.

The last one, actually.

I've finally gotten to the last page of the Folder. I've done everything the Folder demanded of me. Well... More or less. I've failed some, and kind deviated from others, but I pretty much completed my little crusade. A crusade that started long before I ever came to Gotham.

Coming to Gotham was actually the last part of the quest (although it had the most papers).

The last part is getting _out_ of Gotham, which will actually be pretty simple. But, I'll _over_-think about that later. Now, I have to deal with my door less-ness. I hope that the landlord doesn't come around and see this before I have left.

Although...

This apartment is signed under Monica Carmens, and she doesn't actually exist. So, yay, I won't be yelled at.

That leaves the issue of not having a door for the remainder of my stay, however short that may be.

"Nothin' tape can't fix," I mutter, searching through a drawer. I pull out blue masking tape, grab a sheet off the bed, then proceed to tape two of the corners to the top of the doorway, making a flap-like, makeshift door.

_Perfect_

Now, to start packing. The second day I was here I bought a huge duffel bag, real cheap one, at a bargain store. I mean, this thing is ginormous. I'll be able to fit more than half of the 'Must Haves' in it, and the others will go in my suitcase. Oh, and the smaller, breakable things will be in my satchel. I survey the room again, shrug, and then flop on the couch in front of the TV.

_I'll pack later_

As I channel surf, my thoughts drift back to last night. I can't believe how calm I'm acting right now. I'm acting like an explosion- that likely took many lives- , a joy ride with a killer and molestation by a killer is nothing.

Maybe I'm crazy

Or maybe I'm in shock.

Wait, wait, no. I know what it is. When I hit my head I damaged my templar lobe, rendering me an unfeeling, evil sociopath.

That's real... That can happen.

Or at least that's what Spencer Reid of _Criminal Minds_ tells me.

Speaking of which, I wonder if that's on...

I flip to another channel in hopes of seeing the most adorable nerd in the history of adorable nerds, but instead I find News coverage on all of last night's events. I'm about to change the channel, but that uppity bimbo Victoria Vale starts listing off the 'fallen' from last night's explosion at the MCU.

It's a long list.

And there are names I recognize;

_Brendan Grunder_

_Ashton Mankes_

_Paul Murphy_

_Jinnifer Ren_

She also lists people who are currently in intensive care, but I only recognize two names; _Emerson Fleefe and Charles Stephens_

_Jeezus_

Only two of the people I met last night lived. Two of the deceased helped me out. Two of them were kind and decent people. Two of them are dead, and I'm still alive.

It doesn't seem fair.

In life, Ren and Mankes served to help and save people. And now their dead. I only serve myself and am only motivated by my own goals. Do I deserve to live?

Call me melodramatic but at the moment, I don't believe I do.

I want to change the channel, but I can't tear my eyes away. I continue to watch as coverage is made on the events from last night. Apparently while cooped up in the Cage, there was an epic car chase. The Joker had gone after the Batman (Dent) and he and his goons shot at the squad van until Batman stopped him and the Jok-

Wait.

So... Wait...

_Huh?_

So the idiot box is telling me that Harvey Dent is _not_ the Batman?

Oh thank the lord!

"... Dent is in intensive care, being treated for severe burns covering his-"

I mute it.

Because I can hear over my own thoughts.

_WHAT THE FUCK WHY IS HARVEY BURNT WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED NO HE CAN'T DIE HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN IF THE CLOWN HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS HE IS A DEAD MAN AND IF THE BAT HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS HE IS A DEAD MAN..._

I'm so angry and confused that I whip the remote at the TV, the glass shattering and spilling all over the ground. Fat tears leak down my face as I storm back to my room, throwing my sweatshirt in the trash can. It's ruined anyways. I peel my jeans off; my movement's jerky as I continue to sob in frustration and fear.

Fear for the good man that loves Vianca Camilla Maroni for just being her. I am bound to this man through Vianca, through our mutual love for Vianca.

And now, I must go to this man.

I promised I'd see him one last time before I (Vee) disappears from his life forever.

And as Jeezus as my witness, I fucking will.

~/~

By four pm I am stalking into the hospital, contacts in, my hair still damp from my shower, and wearing one of Vianca's outfits. All custom made; a navy tank top, a grey blazer and black dress pants. This is one of Vee's more formal looks, but in all honesty I just grabbed what was at the top of one of the boxes. I even put on a pair of black ballet slippers, seeing as they are one of Vee's obsessions, and because Vee only wears heels to parties.

And this is the farthest thing from a party.

I eye the hospital secretary; a bored looking women who has a puckered face, like she's been sucking on a lemon.

_Lovely_

I had hoped to get a secretary with a winning smile and a sweet disposition that I could easily lie to so I could go see Harvey. But this old bird looks like the type that would ask questions and demand to see my ID.

So I guess I'm going to have to go the sneaky road. I walk up to the front desk, a sweet smile gracing my face.

"Good afternoon..." I check her name tag, "Cadence. I'm waiting for some family, but they are running a little late and I was wondering if I could use the-"

"_What_?" she squawks, stooping toward me with an irritated expression, "I can't hear you. My hearing aid is on the fritz,"

Oh, I can _definitely_ use this to my advantage.

The next few minutes go a little like this; I talk _so _quietly that she can't hear a thing, and the poor dear can't read lips. She squawks and squeals at me to talk louder, all the while flapping her arms like she's about to take off, but my pitch doesn't change.

Soon, she is on the verge of a hernia, so I lean in closer and ask, louder, "I need one of those visitor passes that allows me to go into the hospital rooms,"

"Fine!" she screeches, throwing the pass at me- a clip on tag thing that says 'visitor'-, so fed up and annoyed with me that she doesn't question my intentions. I smirk and thank her, resulting in another "_What?", _as I walk away.

My next mission is a lot less deceitful and mischievous. Basically, I just have to stick my head in all the hospital rooms until I find Harvey's. And Gotham General is pretty friggin' big.

So this may take a bit.

Precisely twenty minutes later I come to a room with an officer guarding it. I flash him my volunteer clip, as well as a winning smile, then poke my head into the room. There he is. I peek around the room, looking for any pesky nurses. There doesn't seem to be any at the moment. Nodding to the officer, I close the door, then I look him over, sorrow filling me.

The good, just, Harvey Dent, usually so strong and shining now lays in a hospital bed, strapped onto the cot, lying on his side, with a troubled look on his face as he sleeps restlessly. I pull up a chair and sit by his side, watching his chest rise and fall with his light, slightly erratic breathing. My eyes roll over him, searching for these 'severe burns' that are supposed to have tarnished this man. I don't see any but then again he is covered by blankets and a hospital gown. Besides, why would little miss Victoria Vale lie to me?

_Nosy little vulture_

I'm not a huge fan of reporters.

I mean, they serve their purpose and I watch the news so they do provide me with some information so I guess I'm a hippo-

"Vianca?"

I blink as Harvey's hoarse voice startles me out of thoughts. I look to see Harvey gazing at me. The way Harvey's lying on the bed allows for me to only be able to see the right half of his face. The eye I can see is the usual dark blue, but it lacks the warmth and brightness that it normally has. My chest constricts at this realization.

"Hi, Harv," I say quietly, very weakly using Vee's voice. He gazes at me, his stare hollow, then closes his eyes. He opens them a moment later, the vacant look in his eyes gone as anger replaces it.

"So you're leaving me too, then?" he spits, glaring at me accusingly. I fidget, looking down at my lap. It's true, I am leavin-

Wait.

_Did he say 'too'?_

"That's the only reason why you're here, right?" he scorns me, turning his eye from me, "To say goodbye."

"Harvey..." I say softly, but I don't know what to tell him.

"Don't try and deny it, Vianca," he snaps, "In fact, the only reason why you bothered to show at all is because you felt sorry for me,"

"That isn't true," I reply quietly.

_Right?_

I mean, I did promise to see him. But...

"_Don't lie to me_!" Harvey suddenly shouts, whipping his eye back to mine. I jump, completely stunned. Harvey has never used that tone with me. He's never said anything in rage or in spite. I've never been...

Afraid of him.

I'm afraid right now. That strange feverish look to his eyes is back, the same one from the other day at the Harbour. But, it's now ten times stronger, and a whole lot more intimidating.

"Harvey, please," I whisper, my voice raw. I avert my eyes, unable to hold his own because of the frightening gleam in them.

"You'll leave me, without a second thought," he seethes, his voice so acidic it makes me flinch.

"Harvey, don't say that," I whisper pleadingly, "You know I can't stay. You know why I have to leave. And you know I would stay if I could,"

That's for sure not a lie. I don't think Vee would leave Harvey if she didn't have to. She loves him, be it like a brother or something stronger. I can't decide.

"You'll be okay without me," I promise. He laughs mirthlessly, the sound so disdainful and spiteful I push my chair back an inch.

_What the fuck happened to him?_

"I'll be okay?" he echoes, sneering at me, "Maybe, by half,"

"Harvey, you're scaring me," I whimper, "What happened to you?"

"_The Joker_ happened," he snarls, "He blew me straight to hell," Then, Harvey turns to me, and I cover my mouth with my hand, a choking sound bleating in my throat, "But I guess hell didn't want me, because it threw me right back,"

His...

His...

_... _His_ face_

It's...

_Oh my god_

The right side of his face is_ destroyed._ Charred; skin blackened and shrivelled. The muscles ruined and blistered. His white molars contrast sickeningly with the scalded flesh of his jaw. The skin on his skin is so ruined that I can see bone. His eye lids are gone, leaving only a rolling, glazed over eye in it's socket; the colour of it reminds me of my great uncles at that funeral. The severity of his burns is perverse.

_How can he still be alive?_

The burns travel down the right side of his neck, and I swallow back vomit when I see the muscles moving and constricting as he breathes and swallows. I realize I'm hyperventilating, and I try to hide it; I don't want to insult Harvey. But he see's my horror and aversion, and manages a knowing, but somehow sinister, smile. The action makes me want to scream.

"Wh-Wha... Harvey, oh my god..." I choke on my words and bile, standing up from my chair. I lock the muscles in my legs to stop myself from running out of the room.

"Disgusting, isn't it? All the more reason to leave me, right?" he says, that smile still in place on his ruined face.

"Harvey," I manage to get out, my voice strained, "How did this happen?"

"I'm surprised you don't know. It's been on every news station for the last twenty-four hours," he says, the corner of his good mouth curling in a vengeful sneer.

"Please Harvey, don't be cruel to me. I'm here to-"

"Help?" he asks incredulously, like I just said the most idiotic thing possible, "Do I look like I want help? No, I don't want anyone's help. I am beyond helping or saving."

Fed up with his pessimism, I explode, "Harvey! Tell me what the fuck happened!"

Harvey looks completely surprised, because Vee almost never got mad or upset, and because normally Harvey would be the _last_ person that she would decide to go off at.

He turns from me, closing his eyes as the contempt drains out of him, sorrow replacing it.

"The Joker ordered Rachel-"

"Wait," I interrupt him, striding back toward the bed, "Rachel's involved in this?"

The look he gives me is of utter pain and grief, and my stomach churns.

"The Joker, he- Vee, he ordered Rachel and I kidnapped. We were taken to two different warehouses, both filled with oil drums, hooked up to a car battery..."

_Jeezus, no_

"Rachel and I communicated from speakers that were on the floor. She told me that only one of us could be saved. I told her that she would be saved. She said we'd get out, and that she'd marry me," his voice chokes a little, "But they- The police- the Batman... _Gordon_," he spits the names out acidly, "They came for _me_ instead. They were supposed to come for _her,"_ he's yelling now_, _"Instead the _Batman_ comes and gets me out, and Gordon _fails_ to get her out!" His hands curl into fists and I watch as his knuckles become white.

"Harvey," I croak, tears pooling in my eyes, "Rachel she's... You mean she's... No," I make a low, guttural noise deep in my throat, and cover my mouth

_NO!_

_Why_? Why do all the _decent_ people in this fucking city keep dying? And why do I always know them, am around them, and befriend them? What the fuck am I, a jinx?

No, no, I know the problem here.

_That motherfucking clown_

"I have _no one_ now, Vee," he says softly, turning back to me to stare into my brimmed over eyes with one hollow eye, and one dead eye. I don't know which one scares me more. Sobbing freely now, I touch the good side of his face, my palm not itching at the contact for once.

"Don't say that, Harvey,"

"It's true," he insists, "Who else cares about me more than Rachel, or you?"

"You're family, Harv," I try half-heartedly, but I already have a hunch at what he's about to say.

"What family, Vee?" he asks harshly, losing his patience with me, "Do you see any of them here? I haven't spoken to my family in years. I have about as much a family as you do,"

If I were actually Vianca, I would take offense to that. But, I'm not, so the words don't faze me like he probably intended.

"Please, stop," I plead quietly, but I don't think he heard me because he just rants on, growing angrier and more vengeful with each word.

"I have no one and it's all the Joker's fault. All the police's fault. All Batman's fault. All _Gordon's_ fault. He made me lose the only family I have. And they'll pay for it," he whispers the last part darkly, a sinister glint in his eye that makes tremble.

_He's not just scarred on the outside..._

He is equally scarred on the inside, likely more even.

I don't understand. How can a man who was once so optimistic and honourable, after one night turn into an enraged, callous shell of the man he once was?

_That motherfucking clown_

I can't even...

I can't believe I semi-got along with the fuckin' clown last night. I mean, I wasn't friendly with or buddy-buddy but I wasn't trying to get away or claw his eyes out. Guilt and anger and grief wash over me simultaneously, and my stomach turns painfully. I clutch it, groaning quietly in pain.

"Harvey," I rasp, the pain in my stomach evident in my voice, "Don't lose your faith in people, please. Don't condemn anyone. You can get through this. You're so strong Harvey. Don't let your anger ..."

"It's far too late to be noble, Vianca," Harvey hisses, both sides of his face curling in fury. I groan as my stomach turns itself inside out. I gag and press my hand over my mouth. I shoot out of my chair and make a bee-line for the door, yelling an apology to Harvey over my shoulder. I wench open the door and fly past the officer. I dry heave as I stumble into the hallway. I conjure a picture of the hallway in my mind, trying to figure out if there's a bathroom down this hall.

_Oh thank the lord_

There's a single handicap bathroom five doors down. I sprint to it, all the while vomit is climbing up, burning my throat. A balding, over weight man steps out of the bathroom, who's likely soiled the bathroom beyond recognition. But do I care?

Nope.

I push him aside, ignoring his angered holler, and I skid down to my knees and heave into the toilet. My dry heaves wrack my trembling body, and between coughs and yaks I sob and hiccup, slow tears rolling down my grey face. I don't get much out. I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, so all I puke up is a sickly yellowy bile and what looks like grape soda.

After my sickness subsides, I rest my forehead against the seat of the toilet, the cool surface soothing against my feverish skin. My tears drip into the toilet, intermingling with my, well, other bodily fluids.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," I chant quietly, half-way hysterical. Everything has gone to shit. Everything. What the hell was the point in doing this if when I leave the people that were most important in the Folder is either dead or broke?

Maroni's legs are fucked and he didn't accept Vee's apology.

Rachel is dead.

And Harvey is better off dead.

And who's to blame?

That motherfucking clown.

Well, I suppose that the Batman was the one that dropped Maroni off a building but it was because he wanted information on the Joker.

I reflect on my relationship with Rachel. Not Vee's and her's relationship, but _ours_. I met her once, but the impression was good. My first impression was that she was someone I could see myself actually becoming friends with. And when she stood up to the Joker I gained a lot of respect for her. She didn't deserve to die. I don't want her to be dead.

"Motherfucking clown," I spit out quietly, closing my quickly drying eyes.

**Tra-la-la! You win! You successfully the third longest chap so far! **

**Okay, so the reason why Rumour's emotions jump around so much in the cop car is because she's still very disorientated from the lil ol explosion, just in case you were confused/concerned/ect.**

**Wanna hear a secret? There's this magical button that brings up a magical box of magicalness just below here. Click it! Wonderful things happen! I mean, think about it. It's not like us ff authors get paid for doing this... BUT HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE!**

**R&R**

**linnie kinda spinne**


	9. Chapter 9

**Welcome to the ninth instalment of my confuddling little fic. I'd like to thank all my readers, reviewers and all those people who favorited and alerted this story. You keep my butt on my couch and my fingers on my keyboard. You're all the reason my mother says I'm lazy and I need to go outside more. Huzzah! Props to you all!**

**Anyways, no real Rumy- Jokey interaction in this one, but he will make an appearance, in a certain outfit all of us simply adore. Hinty hinty-nudgy nudgy. Oh, and this one is shorter, compensating for the whomper from last time. The next few will be a little shorter.**

**Enjoy the read, and as with all ff writers, reviews are always welcome.**

**Disclaimer: *sigh* sadly, Nolan won't answer my emails about me wanting to trade him a cookie for the Batman franchise.**

Chpt.9 **Liberation**

_**I can now see everything falling to pieces before my eyes~ Ian Curtis**_

_I'm in a funhouse, more specifically a maze of mirrors. My reflections are all distorted, depending on the mirror; some make me look really tall and thin, others make me look really short and stout. I stumble around, trying to find the way out. The mirrored walls loom over me and the floor tips. I fall into a mirror, and on contact it burns me. I shriek but no sound comes out of my mouth. I fall to the ground, the air suddenly thick, making me fall slowly and lethargically. I land on knees and hands. I look up and see an image of myself that isn't distorted. My reflection smiles toothily at me, then her face blurs into a mess of white, black and red. The face re-focuses and instead of being me, it is a demonic version of myself. It has sickly white skin, black eyes and a leering red mouth. I scream but still no sound comes out. I bang on the mirror, and slowly the reflection's face starts melting off, dripping all over me. Frantic and scared out of my mind, I slam my fist into the mirror, and it shatters, the glass cascading around me. The pieces lay innocently by me. I pick a piece up, then stand, looking down at the rest of them. The ground shifts and shakes, causing the glass to pile up. The glass then begins piecing itself together. Like a jig-saw puzzle the pieces build them self up until standing before me is my doppelganger, half of her face white, black and red, the other half melted. It smiles at me, and I scream, this time the sound reverberating painfully against the mirrors, making all of them crack. Still screaming, I shove the piece of glass that's in my hand into my demonic doppelganger's chest. It's eyes widen and I realize that instead of smoky-green, they are navy blue with gold in them._

~/~

I jerk awake, causing myself to hit my head against the toilet lid. My head almost falls into the toilet, but I grip the sides of the toilet to stop myself. I groan, pressing a hand to my forehead. Did I really just fall asleep... On a toilet?

Um, yep, I did.

I slept with my upper body slouched over the toilet, and my lower half sprawled awkwardly on the ground, my knees twisted in. I moan as I attempt to get up. My legs are cramped up and my back makes sickening popping sounds as I straighten off the toilet.

I kind of shaky because of my dream, but I'm already forgetting what happened in it. There was mirrors and someone I knew in it, but I can't remember. I feel so drained of emotions. I'm still upset but it's diluted. I don't feel numb, exactly, because I do indeed feel miserable, but at the same time I'm not panicked or pissed off, although I'm sure I will be again soon.

I yelp when I press my hand to the floor as I try to stand up. I lift my hand to my face and see blood is starting to soak through the gauze. Grumbling, I finally stand up, swaying on my feet. I stumble my way over to the mirror. I scowl at my image; my skin is ashen and there are circles under my eyes. Oh, and, ew, there's left over bile on the corner of my mouth. I run the tap and splash water on my face, rubbing at my mouth. I lean over and slurp some water into my mouth, swishing it around to wash away the sour taste of sick on my tongue. I bend and shuffle through my satchel, finally finding some cinnamon flavoured gum. I pop a piece in my mouth and continue rifling through my bag. I pull out a small make-up bag and get out my black eye-liner. I reapply a beauty mark underneath my lip, since the water had washed it away. I take one last look in the mirror, pinching my cheeks to add some colour; a trick Vee had taught me.

I smooth back my riotously wavy hair (that's what happens when I air dry it), and flush the toilet before stepping out of the bathroom. I check my watch and sigh; I was asleep for almost an hour. I left Harvey without saying a proper good-bye, and now he thinks I'll probably never come back, that Vianca has finally stepped out of his life. I've got to go back, say a proper good-bye. But first, I need to find more gauze and some food.

Half an hour later I'm wrapping my hand with some new (stolen) gauze and munching on Hickory sticks I had bought from the vending machine. There, no more blood seeping. Satisfied, I turn the corner that will lead down the hallway to Harvey's room, and I almost bump into someone. It's _Commissioner _Gordon, and he's looking very distressed, yet determined. I utter an apology and he accepts distractedly, hurrying briskly down the hall. I turn and-

_Yeep!_

Maroni stands a few feet away from me, leaning on his cane and looking down right pissed at the sight of me. And, he's right between me and Harvey's room.

Well, doesn't this complicate things?

"Are you following me?" he accuses me, hobbling closer. I scoff, and stand my ground. Seeing him starts to bring my emotions back, and I have a feeling that I'm gonna get pissed real soon, just like I said I would.

"No, I'm not here for you," I retort haughtily, bringing my satchel close to my chest, in case I needa get my gun out, "I'm here to see Harvey,"

"As yourself or my dear sister?" he asks snidely. My eye twitches, my contacts suddenly becoming itchy.

"Don't you call her that!" I snarl, anger simmering in my stomach, "You're no brother to her, so you don't deserve for her to be a sister to you, you selfish prick," His grey-blue eyes widen a smidgen, partly in amazement, but I also think in respect; maybe for me having the balls to stand up to him? He comes closer, and yes, he's sill intimidating even with a limp, but I still stand my ground, my chin tilted up defiantly.

"What did you say to me?" he demands, anger written on his face. I notice he looks tired and maybe a little stressed.

"All she ever wanted was for you to forgive her," I insist, glaring heatedly at the mob lord as he stops only a couple feet from me.

"You still believe that?" he raises a cobalt brow mockingly, "I thought I told you-"

"I don't give a_ shit_ about yours and hers past," I interrupt him, my voice rising with anger, "I don't honestly care that her mother was a home-wrecker and a gold-digger. All I care about is Vianca,"

While saying this, I realize it' true. Thoughts of Vee possibly lying to me about her and Salvatore's relationship, and her mother's intentions, have kept me up at night. But I realize, it doesn't even matter. I don't care about her past and her misdeeds. I don't care that she can be a manipulative bitch, and that she stole her father from Sal. I love Vee, no matter what she does, who she uses, and who she lies to. Even if that's _me_.

"I don't care that you think that Vianca stole you're fathers love from you, which is ridiculous by the way. For all you're talk, you still act like a child," I continue, my words like acid, "Yeah, I'm sure Vianca was a spoiled little brat and you're father thought everything she did was amazing, but do you actually think he loved her more?" I inquire bitingly, shaking my head at him.

"You shut your damn mouth!" Maroni seethes, his hand lashing out and slapping me across the face. My face turns to the side at the impact, and I turn it back slowly, my lip curled with fury. It burns and I think his ring cut me, but the pain only adds fuel to the fire, as the cliché saying goes.

"Vianca may have been a spoiled brat, but you were a selfish one," I hiss.

"I wasn't the selfish one," Maroni growls, "Vianca and that _whore_ Johanna were. They tore apart my family!"

"And it was put back together," I counter spiritedly, "You're father was happy with Johanna, wasn't he?"

Maroni doesn't answer, but I notice he's trembling with anger, and there's a sheen of sweat on his covering his face and neck.

I soften my voice, as pity mixes in with my anger, "You're right. It wasn't fair that you're father cheated on your mother with Johanna. It wasn't fair that you're mother still loved him, but she had enough respect for herself and for your father to accept it graciously. Unlike you. Does your mother still gripe and complain?" His face contorts and he opens his mouth but I cut him off, "Yeah, yeah, I went into dangerous territory by talkin' bout your mother, but I'm right, aren't I? She's moved on. So why haven't you?" I ask rhetorically, the anger completely draining from me, genuine sympathy taking over. I'm just so _damned_ human (sarcasm, of course).

"You felt replaced," I say quietly, stepping hesitantly toward him. His breathing is laboured and his eyes shoot flames at me, but I keep going, "And for that I'm sorry. But think about how Vianca must've felt, knowing that her brother hated her-"

"I don't give a fucking damn-"

"And how you're _father _must've felt, knowing his first and only son hated his last and only daughter," That shuts him up. He inhales sharply and his screwed up face un-tightens to one of bewilderment. I sigh and move around him, saying, "Just think about it, Salvatore. Do you think you're father would be proud of you? He loved Vianca, and he loved you, and he wouldn't want this animosity between you two. Don't slander his name by holding onto this grudge. It's your name too," I begin walking down the hall, and over my shoulder, I add, "And Vianca's,"

"Hey!" he calls at me, and against my better judgement I stop to listen, but don't turn.

"Why were Velerio's boys after ya?" he questions, almost sternly. I freeze.

_I haven't been following him... But he's gotten people to follow me_

"Or were they after Vianca? What did she do this time?" Maroni demands, an edge to his voice.

Could that be... _Worry?_

_But is it for himself or his sister?_

"You've been keeping an eye on me," it's not a question.

"Yeah. Ever since you got Carlisle and Vinn killed. How _is_ the clown these days?" without even looking at him I can tell he's sneering.

"You tell me. You're his little dog now, right?" I fire back and stomp down the hall into Harvey's room, absolutely simmering. The officer from before looks startled and mildly concerned by my re-appearance but he lets me back into the room. I'm actually pretty surprised he's just allowing me to do this, no questions asked, no searches of my person. But, anyways.

_Damn dirty Italian, smug ass Guido, questioning me, insinuating horrible things. Stupid prick_

You know, I think that man pisses me off even more than the Joker, just in a different way...

Or maybe they are equal? Oh I don't know and I don't care. At this moment I hate them both.

Lost in my thoughts I don't notice a bubbly looking nurse staring at me until she titters in her throat to gain my attention. I look at her and flinch.

_Shyikes_

This one looks like a nutter. She has blue and pink hair cut in a bob that ends at her chin, two different coloured eyes (one blue, one brown) and I can't tell if it's natural, and her scrubs have rainbows and leprechauns on them. And that purple smile of her's, due to her lipstick, just isn't natural. Her name tag says Lucinda.

_Looney Lucy_

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Dent needs his rest now. Visiting time is over," Looney Lucy tells me, her smile elongating and her head cocking to one side.

_Oh god, please don't butcher me with cleaver_

"O-okay," I stutter, looking to Harvey, who seems to be asleep, although I have this hunch he isn't and he's just trying to escape from Looney Lucy.

"Bye, Harvey. Love you," I say softly in my Vee-Voice, then add, "I'm sorry," very quietly before spinning on my heel and fast-walking out of there. My stomach growls, so before I leave I decide to go get some more chips from the vending machine.

Fantastic, there's a line.

Who even lines up for a vending machine?

With a huff I opt on going to the cafeteria, seeing as the food will be cheap, and I don't feel like making myself something back home or-

I just referred to my apartment as _home._

I mean, I'm sure I have before, but now it feels more... I don't know. It's just weird. I'm leaving in a couple days, and I think, in a way, I'll miss that little apartment. It's cute and homey, and a wonderful hidey-hole for when I was too afraid to step outside of it. That I'm leaving makes me a little melancholy, but nevertheless hungry so I make my way over to the hospital cafeteria.

I order a BLT with a chocolate pudding and 2% milk. There was some roast beef, but it looked questionable, so I skipped over it. I eat alone at a grey table, and I pick out the bacon. I love bacon but this bacon isn't cooked very well. I like my bacon practically burnt-

Oh god, Harvey. I wonder if he'll ever forgive me/Vianca. I hope he gets better. But, I don't know, that look in his eyes. The way he talked about the Joker, Gordon and the Batman. I shiver, and shove more bread in my mouth. I'm happy that soon I can say goodbye to all this insanity.

~/~

I'm scooping up the last of my chocolate pudding, and was about to leave when the intercom screeches on. The people in the cafeteria, including myself, groan and cover our ears at the shrill sound of the faulty technology.

"_Attention staff, patients and visitors,_" a squawky, high pitched voice says through the speakers.

Ah, good to hear from you again, Cadence.

"_The police have ordered Gotham General to be evacuated. Please make your way to the closest exit in a calm and orderly fashion so an officer may escort you to a bus. Please do not panic, the police have the situation under control,"_

The intercom screeches off. Confused, but still bending to authority, the people in the cafeteria stand and walk briskly out of the cafeteria. I frown, but get up as well. Why are they evacuating? And _all_ the exits have officers? That's inconvenient for me. I'd rather, you know, just walk home now. I can't exactly be put with the rest of the patients at the risk of questions asked and all that jazz. Plus, I need to pack and who knows how long these kinds of things take?

I attempt to find a different way out, by simply going into a random room and opening a window, but apparently windows in hospitals can only be opened with a key, which I guess kind of makes sense but I'm sure is also a fire hazard...

"Miss, would you come with me please?" a voice behind me drones, and I jump in surprise. I whip around and see an annoyed looking female officer. Feeling sheepish at being caught at my stupid attempt to get out, I hang my head and follow her out.

"Why did you try to go out the window?" the female officer asks me, her tone clearly telling me she thinks I'm an idiot.

"I don't like doors?"

She snorts rudely and leads me down the hallway. I stick my tongue out at her as I walk behind her reluctantly. What a miserable little cow. Although, she's working that bun and she walks with swag... I still don't like her.

Officer Cow (my nicknames just keep getting better) escorts me to one of the side exits and opens the door for me. I see several yellow school buses and she takes me the closest one. Nearby I see that Mike Engel fellow, doing a broadcast or something. I cover my face with my hand as climb onto the bus, just in case I get into the shot. Officer Cow leads me to a seat that's three from the back, right behind the back wheel. I can't help but being happy about this. Everyone knows the best seats are either at the very back or near the wheel. It's bumpy!

Unfortunately, though, I have a seat partner. A scrawny, oily skinned boy that looks about fourteen, with floppy mouse brown hair and excited blue eyes. He'll probably be attractive in a few years, when he widens out and gets some skin cream. He stands, trying to be a gentleman and lets me take the window seat.

"Stay here," Officer Cow (her real name is Tenner, but I like my nickname better) orders, then makes her way out of the bus and I watch her go back into the hospital. I fidget anxiously and clutch my satchel to me.

"Hey," the boy beside me voice cracks, "My name is Brant," I glance at him quickly then resume to looking out the window.

"What's_ your_ name?" _Brant_ asks, and I feel him move his elbow closer to my arm. I look at him and raise my eyebrows.

"Are you making a move on me?" I ask incredulously. His round, still baby-like face reddens, and it actually helps his complexion.

"Uh-"

"Oh no, I'm sorry," I say quickly, regretting being such a bitch. I actually like kids. But, I'm not very good with them. In fact, I really frigging suck with them.

"It's just... You're too young for me and we just met and... Look, kid-"

"Brant,"

"Brant, you are adorable and I'm sure you're a good kid, but I'm not in the mood for chit-chat. So can you just...Be quiet, maybe? Please?" I wince, hoping I don't sound like a bitch again. His eyes move to his lap and he nods.

"Sorry, it's just I'm really stressed and-"

"Its fine," his voice breaks again, "I'm used to girls not wanting to talk to me,"

I can practically _feel_ my eyes soften. This kid reminds me of Graham McKinely, my date to the dance, my high school crush and the only boy who's ever kissed me because he actually cared and liked me.

"Awe, Brant," I exclaim, unable to help myself, "You are so cute, and one day you are going to be so hot!" I sound like a cougar, "Just don't become a douchebag and you'll be fine. Be sensitive and artsy and all that crap. Girls go crazy for that, fuck being the jock. If you can write a song or poem about her, or paint a picture of her, she'll have your pants off in seconds!"

Wow, I'm giving a freshmen dating/sex advice. Just... Wow. Brant nods vigorously, his eyes wide at this epiphany. I smile when he gets a notebook out of his knapsack and begins jotting down words. Satisfied, and happy for the distraction from all the terrible that has happened today, I lean my head against the window.

Only for it to shoot back up when I hear a deafening blast; the unmistakable rumble of an explosion. Mike Engel and his crew jump hastily into my bus, sitting down at the front, the camera still recording. People on my bus scream and tousle about their seats as the explosion rocks our bus. I bump into Brant, screaming right along with the rest of the passengers. Oh, and I'm pretty sure when I bumped into Brant, my boobs brushed against the kid's face; I probably made his day. I pull down my window and crane my head out to look at the explosion. Black smoke billows about the falling pieces of building, and flames swirl about. But, suddenly, the explosions cease. Another sight, likely even more disturbing than the explosion, grabs my attention.

The Joker, a few several feet from my bus, wearing a... _is that a nurse dress_?

_Uh... I don't think I want to know..._

The Joker's face is comically confused as he turns and looks at the only semi-destroyed hospital. He lifts his arms in a _'what the fuck?'_ gesture and looks down at what I assume is the detonator in his hand. Then he begins tinkering with it, repeatedly hitting the button as his confusion turns into frustration. Another explosion splits the air, and the Joker jumps visibly and skeddadles into the bus nearest him.

_My _bus.

He rips open the back door of the bus, but no one, besides me, seems to notice because most eyes are on the quickly caving-in building. The hospital collapses into itself as fire and smoke consume it. The Joker plunks himself down into a seat at the back and starts making wild gestures and yelling, "Go, go, gooooooo!". He jumps up and down in his sit, positively giddy. Strangely enough, though, he never turns to watch the explosion like the rest of us. The driver quickly starts the bus and follows the rest of the buses out of the hospital parking lot as the last of the hospital crumbles into nothing but debris and smoke. We follow the line of buses until we suddenly pull away and drive quickly down another street.

"Hey, why aren't we-" Brant begins to say, rather loudly, but I clamp a hand over the kid's mouth.

"Shut it," I tell him distractedly, not wanting the kid to attract any sort of unwanted attention. My eyes remain glued to the Joker, watching him warily. He's barely containing his giggles, but his bouncing has decreased somewhat. Watching him, I realize I was right; he is wearing a nurse's dress. He looks ridiculous, but at the same time it fits him... Well? I giggle a little at the absurdity, and Brant gives me a puzzled look.

"Maul!" I flinch a little when the Joker yells and a man with chocolate milk skin and buzzed pale blond hair a few seats up stands. Oh, I remember him. The Oreo (half-black, half-white) Irish guy.

"Pass me my clothes, woulda?" The Joker says, and Maul bends down and gets a small black duffel bag from beneath his seat and passes it to the clown, who stands and catches it easily.

"Oh my god!" someone shrieks, and I groan when I see its Cadence, "Its-its... _It's the Joker_!" she flaps her arms wildly, all sorts of horror written on her gnarled face. The Joker, still standing, puts on a look of surprise on his painted face and looks around wildly.

"What-_tuh?_ Where?" he squawks in the same tone Cadence used before dissolving into delirious laughter, falling back into his seat with the intensity of it. The people on our bus begin to scream and panic. The Joker waves a hand and several passengers' stand and point sawed off Tommy guns at the rest of us.

We are officially hostages.

"Cell phones," one of them barks, "Get them out. Now."

Still panicking, but now concerned about their lives, everyone begins to reluctantly get out their phones. I get mine out and quickly turn it off. Brant looks sadly down at his shiny iPhone, and I pat his arm awkwardly. The man who ordered us to get our phones out starts walking up and down the aisle, a bag in his hand. He comes to each seat, intimidating the passenger's into giving up their phones. When he comes to Brant and I, we give them up willingly and I see Brant staring at the gun in his hand, his eyes wide. Poor kid. I study this goon; He's a tall, wide man with a shiny bald head and beady black eyes, and he looks to be in his late thirties or so. He's a mean looking man, and I don't want him anywhere near me. He collects all the phones then brings the bag to the Joker, who is pulling clothing out of the bag not paying attention. The goon clears his throat and the Joker looks up, his brow creased at being bothered. He snatches the bag of phones from the goon and carelessly throws them into the space beside him. The hostages aren't screaming anymore, but most of them are crying and whimpering. Brant is looking really pale and his breathing is shallow, but so far he's been a champ.

"You okay?" I whisper to him. He nods shakily, inhaling a shuddery breathe.

"My parents," he says quietly, "They aren't on this bus."

_Poor guy_

"We, we were here-there- visiting my grandma. She had a stroke," he continues, his voice hoarse and still cracking. Looking around, I see that some of the passenger's are patients, some are nurses and doctors while others seem to be visitors, like Brant and I. I swallow with some difficulty; did Harvey get out safely?

_Please let him be safe, on another bus_

"Is he going to kill us?" Brant asks, and I look down at him, and see he's staring at the Joker, as are most of the hostages. I turn my gaze back to the clown, then blush when I see he's working on getting the nurse dress off.

_Awkward_

The bus driver makes a sharp, jerky turn, making the Joker almost fall out of his seat.

"Goliath!" he snaps to the bus driver, "Do. You. Mind-_dah?_"

"Sarry, boss," the driver, _Goliath,_ hoots back in a thick Boston accent. The hostages have pretty much quieted down, so besides that yelling, the bus is uncomfortably quiet. The Joker scowls, and continues taking his dress off. I look away as he begins sliding it down.

"Are we still on?" I hear a voice at the front of the bus whisper.

"I think," another voice whispers back.

"Keep recording. Maybe we are still on at the station, and the police can figure out-"

"Oh, ah, Mister Engel?" the Joker sing-songs, and all heads whip back to him. The dress is off and his purple slacks are on, his black suspenders hanging loosely around his hips. He's not wearing a shirt. He's hanging his arms over the back of the seat in front of him, sitting the end of his seat so he can see the reporter. Engel looks at the clown, swallowing hard, and wiping at his likely sweating forehead.

"I suggest-_tah_ saving a little en-er-gy for later," the Joker goes on, his voice suddenly menacing, "Your's and the camera's, m'kay?" he licks his lips and smiles lethally at the reporter.

"Graves, would you, ah, kind-ah-ly take the camera off Mr. Engel's hand's for a bit? Might be too much of a, mmm, _temptation_ for him if we let him keep it, yes?" the Joker's malevolent eyes remain on Engel as he orders another goon. _Graves_, a punk-ass looking goon with all black clothes and dyed black hair with a streak of blue through it, stands and slinks toward Engel, swiping the camera, turning it off with a cocky smirk on his pierced mouth. Graves looks to be about my age, maybe older, and would be attractive if he didn't carry that air of arrogance about him. Oh, and he'd be a zillion times hotter if he wasn't holding a weapon. Graves sits back down, beside a pretty nurse. I watch with disgust as he whispers in her ear, and she presses herself against the window to try and get some space between them. He just smirks again and continues talking lowly to her, so only she can hear. Tears streak down her ashen face, and I turn away.

The bus is deathly silent.

Until.

"_Geez,_" the Joker exclaims in mock annoyance, "Did someone _die_?"

No one answers.

With an excited look he pops up higher in his seat, and sputters with laughter, "_Did-duh_ someone act-ual-ly die?" He laughs heartily, pulling his arms into the sleeves of his hexagonal undershirt. He leans forward and prods the doctor sitting in front of him.

"Wassup, doc?" he grins cheesily. The doctor, an aged man, scowls at him and asks with daring, "What do you want?"

The Joker mulls over the words, his eyes sliding upward, his tongue licking the corner of his red mouth. In a burst of energy and a blur of purple, the doctor's jaw is in the Joker's hand, and a butterfly knife is in the man's mouth. The woman beside the doctor shrieks and begs the Joker not to hurt them.

"What-_tuh_... Do... I... Want?" the Joker repeats slowly, pressing his knife into the corner of the man's mouth.

"Don't watch," I tell Brant, but he doesn't listen. The air is still and filled with tension in the bus as we wait. The Joker runs his tongue over his teeth slowly, narrowing his eyes shrewdly at the doctor.

"I don't want much-_ah,_ doctor, ah..." he checks the man's nametag before snapping his eyes back to his, "_DeYoung_. A little anarchy here, a little mayhem there. But I, ah, I think what you meeean is-_uh_, what. Do. I want. With. _You_?" he presses the knife deeper, a trail of blood dripping down the doctor's face.

"Y'see," the Joker goes on, like a professor teaching a lesson, "I firmly believe-_vah_ that _everyone_, every little, in-sig-nificant person out there has a, uh, _purpose_," he says reverently, pulling 's face closer, and raising his voice so we can all hear.

"_I_ have a purpose,_" _he raises his brow and nods rapidly, "You can call me a _monster _ and a _terrorist_, but at least I am doing what I am _meant_ to do. What society _wants_ me to do," he pulls the knife in DeYoung's mouth up a little, cutting into his cheek, more blood falling down his face.

"And so will all... Of... _You_," his black, glinting eyes rove over all the passengers, and he stares at us, his gaze burning and determined. He's not laughing now. He is intense and serious, and from that look I know we are all in serious danger. This isn't fun and games. He has a purpose for us, and we will fulfill it no matter what. He won't show us mercy. No, there is no mercy in those dark, endless eyes of his.

We are all but tools; puppets. And he is a clown turned ringmaster.

The Joker is the ultimate oxy-moron, maybe even more than the _Virgin Mother_.

"You should really be _thanking_ me," he tells us pointedly, licking his chops, "I am you're, euh," he ponders the proper word for a moment, "_Liberator,_" he decides finally, "I am sim-puh-ly _serving_ you," he shushes DeYoung when he whimpers and goes on, "Helping you to reach you're, ah, _full_ potential, hm?" he looks back at DeYoung, taking his chin in his other hand and making the doctor nod, making the knife cut deeper into him.

"Y'see, he agrees with me!" The Joker hoots, the intensity in his voice replaced by that clowny, high-pitched tone, "And he's a _doc-ah-tor_... That's gotta count for something, right-_tah?_" he smiles at all of us, showing off all his teeth, even his molars.

"So," he says in a casual manner, "Just, ah, sit back," he retracts the knife from DeYoung's mouth, but not before cutting in just a little deeper, "Relax," he sits back in his seat, sinking into it and hanging his arms over the back of it lazily, "And enjoy the ride," I don't think he means just the bus ride. I think he wants us to accept the chaos or whatever. This guy should become a cult leader or something. The way he captures attention is remarkable. Not one person looked away or stopped listening during the Joker's speech. I think he might have even begun to make some people actually feel liberated. I mean, beside me Brant is more wide-eyed than ever, but not from fear. Maybe awe?

Either way, the only thing I feel toward this man is rage and hatred. I haven't forgotten what he did to Rachel, or what he's done to Harvey. He can liberate everyone else if he so wishes, but the clown won't get to me. I am somewhat wise of his ways, and I won't let him get to me.

**Semi-cliffie! Sorry, but the next few will kind of be like that, but admit it, you all love the feeling of anticipation, no matter how much it eats away at you.**

**Whoop, first dream sequence! How'd I do? Was it too obvious? Was it not obvious enough? Did you note any symbolism or whatever? Did it give the illusion that I am deep?**

**Tell me! **

**I only wish to improve... That and get that stupid grin on my face when I read reviews, but we won't get into that.**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry bout the slow update. Work, yanno? The real world sucks, that's why I try to spend as much time as I can in other, more fictitious ones... Even if it's the sullen, gloomy world of Gotham City.**

**So, I really like this one. This chapter is inspired by **_**My Purple Skies**_** fic 'An Agent of Chaos'. So, if you have read her fic, you may see some similarities, if you haven't read it, go friggin do it! Her Joker is bomb diggity!**

**Anyways, on with chapter 10! Tonnes of Mr. Purple Pants in this one, folks!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own TDK, but if I did... *rubs hands together deviously * **

Chpt.10 **The Seat Behind the Wheel**

_You have set something in motion; Much greater than you've ever known; Standing there in all you're grand naivety; About to reap what you have sown~ Nine Inch Nails_

We've been driving for over fifteen minutes or so, and despite myself I feel immensely awkward. But I'm sure so do all the other hostages. It's quiet except for whistling coming from the back. The Joker has finally managed to button his undershirt most of the way (he has about three buttons left to, well, button), and his waistcoat is hanging off him, completely unbuttoned. At the moment he has a foot propped against the seat in front of him, and he's putting on his worn loafers. I can't help but notice his zany, argyle socks.

_Who wears argyle anymore?_

After he had let go of DeYoung, the Joker had fallen back into silence, apart from whistling eerily cheery ditties. The lady beside DeYoung, who I assume knows him well (daughter? patient? much younger wife or girlfriend?) as quietly as she could freaked out over the laceration in DeYoung's cheek, which has only now stopped bleeding. Another doctor, after getting Maul's permission (who first looked to the head honcho, and he had nodded) went over to look at DeYoung's wound. He cleaned it as best he could, and is now attempting to stitch it up.

I grimace and look away, shuffling through my satchel. My heart drops into my stomach when I see I had grabbed the Folder. I don't remember why, but I think I had wanted it along for something only semi-important. If the wrong person- well anyone, but namely a certain anarchist- gets their hands on the Folder I am so totally screwed.

"You got any gum?" Brant asks me out of the blue, moistening his chapped lips. I nod and pull out three packs; Stride peppermint, 5 Gum cinnamon and Excel spearmint. I like having fresh breath, plus it stops me from biting my nails when I'm nervous.

"Which one?" I whisper very quietly, and Brant points to the spearmint gum. I pass him a piece, and pop one into my mouth as well, and proceed to bite my nails.

I'm pretty friggin' stressed.

Minutes stretch by, and the silence is starting to get to me. Well, not complete silence. In the back, the clown has moved onto whistling something that sounds kind of like _'Pop goes the Weasel'_. I have my iPod in my bag, but I don't know if I'd get in trouble for listening to it...

Jeezus, it's like we're- the hostages and I- are taking an exam and the clowns are our teachers.

_No cell phones_

_No talking_

_No cheating_

All we need now is a time period in which we have to complete out exam, and thinking about it, I realize out time period is probably very short. And running out.

So you know what, if I'm going to be a pawn in some grand anarchical scheme, I sure as hell am going to listen to my music. I mean, hell, what have I got to lose?

...

Actually, I can think of a lot of things, but fuck it, I don't care (that much).

I dig through my bag, pulling out my brick-like iPod, and I untangle my blue headphones before putting one of the buds in my ear.

"Can I listen?" Brant inquires, eyeing my other ear bud. I hide my grimace; I don't like sharing headphones, because the prospect of intermingling ear-wax freaks me out a little. But, I take pity on the poor kid, because this situation sucks for him just as much as it sucks for me. I hand him the other ear bud, and he sticks it into his ear really far. I wrinkle my nose briefly, then begin scrolling down my songs. I want to help myself relax so I think I'll choose something a little light...

"I'll choose," Brant says, snatching the iPod from me. My brow creases and I quirk my lips, displeased by these events. I wince when the song he chooses blares into my ear.

Great, it's _Bodies_, by Drowning Pool. Why do I even have this song? I hate screamo and metal. Plus the whispering at the beginning scares me. But, Brant seems content; he bobs his head, his hair bouncing around like a classic head-banger. So, I'll give him this one.

But next ones mine.

~/~

Three minutes later, I'm deciding between Michael Buble or Regina Spektor, when a voice barks a few seats from me.

"Oi! Whaddya doing?" It's the mean looking goon that had collected our phones earlier. I widen my eyes, in an attempt to look innocent. It doesn't work because he comes lumbering over, his stance intimidating and his brutish face curled into a sneer.

"Give that to me," Meanie orders, thrusting his meaty palm toward me. I frown and pull my ear bud out.

"Why? It's just an iPod," I return defiantly, which I'm sure isn't smart but I'm really protective of my portable music box. I mean, honestly, why is my listening to my iPod his issue? It's one of the very first editions, so it's not like it can connect to the internet or that fancy-shmancy stuff that the newer iPod's can do.

"Just give it to him, Marjorie," Brant says under his breath. Yes, I gave him one of my, and I realize the most used, aliases. I look at him, mouth slightly agape.

_Why that little mo-fo!_

Stupid kid just betrayed me! What the hell? I mean, I shared my headphones with him! If that isn't a bonding and trust exercise, then I don't know what is.

"You heard the pip-squeak," Meanie leers, showing off chipped, crooked teeth, "Hork it over," He flexes his clammy paw, and the thought of my precious iPod in his beefy hand makes me shudder.

"Really, it's not a big deal. Look at it, it's a brick! It's only function is music, honest to god. Plus, it doesn't even have giga-bites, it's so old that it runs on mega-bites or whatever. Every time I get a new song I have to erase like..._ Five _old ones..."

I'm blabbing, but seriously, the thought of this meat-head taking my iPod has me real stressed out.

"Listen, _bitch_, just give me the fuckin' iPod!" Meanie spits, his voice rising threateningly. I raise my brow at the insult, but really, petty words like _bitch, slut, whore_, etcetera, don't affect me. They're just words. Degrading, sure, but those kinds of words don't do anything to me 'cos I know I'm not them... Well, at least not a slut or whore. A word should only affect a person if the word describes who they are. And even if I am a bitch, so what? Maybe I like being a bitch.

But I digress.

"Listen, you over grown meatball-" I begin, but my mouth clicks shut when laughter, _clowny _laughter, reaches my ears.

"_Children, children_," I wrinkle my nose at the mockingly chiding tone, "No fight-_tah-_ing, no bit-_tah_-ing," I don't look up. I refuse to. I plop my iPod into my bag, and hold it close, looking out the window stubbornly.

"U-uh, boss, she, uh..." Meanie stutters, and I smile a little, but it's gone in a second.

"Now, Dee," the Joker sighs condescendingly, "Is that any way to treat-_tah _a, uh, a _lady? _Hm?"

_My knight in purple armour_

"But, boss, she was bein-" Meanie, or rather, _Dee_ (what the hell is with these names?) tries but the Joker shushes him, and begins speaking him in too low a voice for me to hear. Beside me I can feel Brant trembling, and sneaking a glance I see he's staring at the Joker with an odd mixture or fear and wonder, not unlike one would feel when meeting a famous person. My eye twitches in disgust for the boy I _had_ semi-befriended.

I needa pick better friends.

I hear Dee let out a shuddery breath, and utter an apology, then he stomps away. I hear someone tossing their saliva, and my breathing becomes harsher as I realize the Joker is still here.

And he knows I'm here.

_So, so, so, soooooooo screwed_

Goosebumps cover my arms as the familiar sense of fear that the clown brings fills me, but at the same time a warm feeling in my stomach begins to simmer. That, I suppose, is my fury toward the clown resurfacing. Hot and cold flashes wave over me, and I'll say it's not the most comfortable feeling.

"Hey," The Joker says, but I don't think he's addressing me, "Small fry," He's talking to Brant. I can feel Brant trembling beside me. He's scooting closer to me, like I'll offer him some protection. Wish I could, kid, but in all honestly, what can I do? Besides, the little bugger did semi-betray me.

"Scoot," the Joker barks, and beside me Brant is yanked away. I flinch when he yelps in fear, but I don't allow myself to turn to see what's going on. I do, however, press myself against the window as someone, much bigger and ultimately more intimidating than Brant, slides in beside me. The fire in my stomach climbs up to my chest, but at the same time my breathing is shallow in fear. I'm amazed at how bold I was the last time I saw the Joker. Both times I mean. When we were in the Cage and the squad car. But, I suppose while in the Cage I thought perhaps the cops could help me if need be, and in the police car I was a little loopy from likely being slightly concussed. I hunch my shoulders up when I feel humid breath near my ear.

What is with this guy and invading personal bubbles?

"Two days in a row, huh?" the Joker states smugly into my ear, and I can feel his arm pressed against mine. I can tell he still isn't wearing his over coat; I can feel the silkiness of his periwinkle undershirt against my arm.

"You still sure all this is co-in-ci-dence-_sah?_" his mouth brushes against my earlobe, his hair intermingling with mine. But I refuse to look at him. I'm afraid that if I do, I'll explode and rip him a new one. I want more than anything to rage at this man for killing Rachel and ruining Harvey, but this is hardly the place. So, I'll wait until we're of this bus, and until we're alone, (although I hope I won't be alone with him). I grit my teeth when he lifts an arm and rests it against the back of the seat, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing my shoulder. I shrug my shoulder, trying to shake him off, but he retaliates my gripping my shoulder, crushing it in his hand. I growl under my breath, and he chuckles quietly.

"Mmm," the Joker hums against the hair by my temple, "Why so..._ furious-suh,_ Green Eyes?" he sounds calm, but I can hear the subtle bite in his tone.

"Go away," I whisper bitterly, barely keeping my anger in check, but at the same time making sure I don't shake in fear at how close he is to me. I feel him turn in his seat, so he's facing me, and his hand crawls to my face, brutally turning it so I look at him. I slice my eyes to his, contempt wrinkling my brow. His tunnel eyes rove my face, pondering me. I assess him too; his make-up is messy, as usual, and he still hasn't buttoned his shirt all the way. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, and his vest is still open. Only one suspender is up over his shoulder. I try to jerk away but his grip on my jaw tightens to the point of it being painful.

"Go... Away?" he echoes, like he doesn't quite understand, "Why?"

"I don't want you near me," I reply quietly, inhaling sharply through my nose to keep calm. He sucks on the inside of his right cheek, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. He brings his face close to mine, his nose almost touching mine.

"And_,_ why is that-_tuh_?" he inquires tilting his head to one side slightly, glaring at me from beneath his brow.

"Shouldn't it be obvious?" I snap, "You're a homicidal _maniac_. Why would I _ever_ want to willingly be near you? You are poison. A toxic human being, and I don't want you around me," my voice is all venom and acid, but I keep it quiet, just in case anyone is watching, which I'm they are. I can feel eyes on us, and I swallow hard. The Joker blinks at me, then smirks lethally.

"Ohhh, I gettit. You're, ah, you're upset about Dent-_tah_ and _Mizz _Dawes, aren'cha?" he guesses, raising a chalky eyebrow, arrogance all too evident in his erratic voice. I bite my tongue to keep from retorting. We can't have this conversation here. So, I change the subject.

"So... Any special reason why you decided to blow up a hospital?"

_And why the heck in a nurse outfit?_

"Blackmail, I suppose," he answers, allowing the change in dialogue, and relaxing back into his seat, his hand un-curling from my face. He keeps his other hand on my shoulder though, "Someone wanted to rat out Bat-_uh_ Man, so I said if someone didn't, ah, _kill _him, I'd blow up-_pah_ a hospital. As you've probably guessed-_duh_, no one killed the rat," he licks his lips lazily, keeping his eyes on my face.

"Don't you want to know who he is?" I ask, a little peeved. I mean, I thought the reason for his little crusade was because he wanted to know who the Batman was. Isn't that why he killed Brian Douglas and all those others?

"Oh, I _do_," he says reverently, pulling me closer to him. I hunch my shoulders again, trying to gain any distance I can.

"But-_tah_ not by some, uh, guy who sim-pah-ly wants his fifteen minutes of fame-_ah_," he tells me, squeezing my shoulder in what I think is an effort to un-hunch it. I do, but I keep the other one up.

"No, no, that would be, ah..." he tongues the corner of his mouth contemplatively, "_Lazy,_" he decides with short nod of his head.

"Y'see," he goes on, leaning into me like he wants to tell me a secret, "I want the Bat-_uh_ Man to, ah, be the one to tell the world. To admit to himself that he is _human_. Just. Like. The rest of us,"

I mull over his words. I find they disgust me. I think he wants to break the Batman, and that makes me feel sick. The Batman just wants to keep this city safe and uphold justice, all that jazz, and this monster beside me would take that away. I may not like this city, it may not have many redeeming qualities, but I don't want to condemn it, and I think Gotham needs the Batman.

"What will you do if you ever figure out Batman's identity?" I whisper, lowering my eyes to my lap. I see that my hands are shaking, so I clench them into fists. The Joker shrugs carelessly.

"Dunno... But I'll think-_kuh_ of something," he promises darkly. I shudder and he chuckles, stroking his thumb along one of my collar bones.

"What are you gonna do with the hostages?" I ask, looking over my shoulder to see if I can spot Brant. I do; he's sitting where the Joker used to be, watching us with wide blue eyes. He doesn't look afraid, but rather amazed and marvelled.

_Looks like the clown actually has liberated someone_

That Brant, cute innocent little Brant may actually believe in the Joker's words fills me with an odd sense of melancholy. That's the problem with teens, they are so easily manipulated.

I mean, look at _Hitler's Youth_.

"I, ah, guess you'll just hafta wait. And. See," the Joker smirks, moving his hand higher to lightly hold the side of my neck. His bare hand is extremely warm, and it feels uncomfortable against my goosebumps. Worry for Brant and the other hostages makes the fire in my chest recede back into my stomach, where it simmers quietly. Dormant, for now. But, the fear rises, making even my tightly clenched fists shake, and shivers run through me.

"Let us go," I plead quietly, biting my lip as it begins to tremble. His other hand places three fingers under my chin, chucking my chin up. He puckers his lips mockingly, like he's actually thinking my request over.

"Wouldn't that be a little, uh, redundant-_tuh?" _he exposes his teeth in a wolfish smile. My heart sinks, and my lips twitch with my need to beg more. But I don't; I'll keep whatever dignity I have, thanks. The Joker's smile suddenly falls, and he scowls.

"You're, uh, you're wearin' those _contacts_ again," he pulls at the skin under my left eye with the tip of a finger. Right, I had forgotten that I'm still in costume; Still Vee.

"You should, ehm, take 'em out-_tah_," it sounds like a suggestion, but I have enough sense to know it's a direct order. I sigh, but pull away from him, and he allows it. Using the window to help me, I take out the navy contacts, then I put them into a pocket in my satchel. A hot hand returns to my neck, and I turn back to the Joker, only to jolt when I see his face is inches from mine. He drags my face closer, and proceeds to _lick _me- _lick me!- _, from the bottom of my chin, over my lips, to the bridge of my nose. I squeak loudly and thrust myself away from him, plastering my back to the window. My chest is heaving, my eyes are wild, and the saliva on my face is unpleasantly warm.

_What. The. _Fuck._ Was. That?_

He laughs, loud and shrill, at my terrified, as well as vastly confused, expression. I flinch noticeably when his finger touches the skin beneath my mouth, prodding my flesh.

"I, ah-heh," he says through self-pleased chuckles, "I was just _wiping _off the eyeliner,"

_Eyeliner... Oh, the beauty mark_

My mouth drops open in horror at the absurd reason behind his actions. He snickers, the sound throaty and low, and collects both my wrists into his hands. I don't resist, still numb with horror, as he pulls me toward him by my wrists. He rubs the skin beneath my lip with the back of one of his knuckles, his mirth-filled eyes drilling into my incredibly wide ones. He stops rubbing my skin, and simply cups my chin in his hand. His eyes take in the details of my horror-struck face; from my gaping mouth, to quivering eyelashes, and then to the line of his saliva on my face. I can feel it drying on my face, and I'm reminded of a fire hydrant being peed on by a dog.

I feel marked. My eye twitches.

My breathing stops when he begins inclining toward me.

_Is he..._

His mouth is centimetres from mine when I shoot up out of my seat and his grasp. Feeling much like a deer freaking out while trying to escape a wolf, I attempt to bolt outta there, only for the bus to go over a bump, causing me to topple over. Hands catch me around my waist, yanking me back before I can face-plant. The momentum of being ricocheted as such makes me topple again.

...Right into the deranged clown's lap.

His howls of mirth register to my ears long before my predicament registers to my brain. By the time it does, the Joker's got my hands in one of his, and his other hand is wrapped tightly around the small of my back.

I'm good and stuck.

The bus jostles more, and I fall forward again, face-planting into the Joker's clavicles. I can feel the rumbles of ill-contained laughter in his chest, humming against mine.

"Well, hello there, Rumy dearest," he whispers huskily, his thumb stroking against the inside of one of my wrists; on the pulse point. I'm breathing heavily; huge bursts of minty (I managed not to swallow my gum when I fell) puffs hit into the Joker's collar. I wriggle as best I can, but his grip is tight and I'm trapped. My legs are bent at the knee on either side of him, so I'm straddling him. I feel like a stripper giving a costumer a lap dance.

"Lemme go," I say with as much strength as I can, but my voice wavers with fear. He's too warm, too strong, too malevolent. I want to go back to my apartment, back to my bed.

Back to my old life.

"Hummmm," he murmurs, resting the side of his face against the top of my head, "No, I'm good, thanks," I can practically _feel_ his smile. He tugs me closer to him, so my face is practically squished against the base of his neck. I can feel eyes on us more than ever. And gossiping whispers reach and taunt my ears. I whimper low in my throat, and he hushes me, rubbing his chin gently on the top my head. His hand makes circles on my back, and the skin that his hands touch sear with the heat of his hands. His hand releases mine, but they are squished between us, rendered useless. He reaches up and runs his hands through my hair.

Petting me, like I'm his dog.

Like I'm his bitch.

"Yanno," he says quietly, for my ears alone, "I'm us-ual-ly more, ah, _into_ red-_duh_ heads," he tweaks a strand of honey-coloured hair, chuckling to himself, " I mean, all that scah-reamy coloured hair all over, the tempers... Not to mention they, uh, they _bleed _a lot. Didja know that? Ginger's blood is us-ual-ly thinner than other peoples," he curls that strand of hair around a long finger, "But, there's this... _Something_ about you," he presses his stained lips to my temple, his green-blond hair falling into my face. I'm trembling and panting, but he likely doesn't care because he goes on.

"Could be that, uh, _knack_ you have for gettin' into trouble," he muses, his words burning on my skin. The hand in my hair travels down, tracing the outside of my ear, before dipping and trailing down a large vain in my neck. I try to rear back but the hand on my back pushes against me, knocking our hips together.

"Or may-ah-be it's that funny little habit-_tuh_ of yours to act like you're _not _afraid when, uh, clearly you _are,"_ his scorching fingers trace my clavicles and I close my eyes, willing the monster beneath me to just disappear. I flex my fingers experimentally, only for them to brush against the Joker's lower abdomen. The contact makes me jerk, and I give up on trying to move my hands. I'm surprised by how much muscle I can feel against me, in both his arms and torso. For a lanky looking dude he's pretty defined...

_Gah, no no no, don't think like that. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts_

"Could be your eyes," he considers, then grabs the back of my neck and yanks my head up. I whine in my throat at the pain of my neck being whipped around like that. The Joker knocks our foreheads together so he can get a good look at my eyes.

"I always did like the colour gah-reen," he tells me, licking his lips insidiously. Being no longer fully pressed to him, I am able to move my hands, and ignoring the burning feeling, I push frantically against his chest.

"Let go of me!" I demand, heaving my hands against him as hard as I can but he doesn't even blink. Instead, both hands lash up to cup my face. And in one of them, he holds a knife. The way his hands are placed on me enables him to press the tip of the blade to the corner of my mouth. He's smiling at me, but I'm not sure that it reaches his eyes.

"You know what I think-_kuh_ it _really_ is," he asks me feverishly, licking his chops with relish. I shake my head but he tsks at me, instead forcing me to nod.

"I think-_kuh_ _one_ of the likeliest reason why after allllll this time you haven't been, ah, _sliced-dah_ is because you're a... mystery," the knife presses deeper into my lip, breaking the skin. My hands clutch at his shirt now, to help control the panic rising in me.

"See, I'm the kinda guy who likes to, ah, _know_ the people I _kill_. Understand them to a certain dah-gree, so I can _show_ them who they _actually_ are," his fingers dig into my skin, likely to leave welts and bruises. Tears fill my eyes, swirling the red, white and black of his face even more.

"But you, oh _you_," he says in a mixture on endearment and contempt. I always find it strange how he's able to feel two opposite emotions at the same time, "I don't-_tuh_ know you. Thought I did, for awhile. Thought you were a mob brat, little _Mizz_ Mah-roni. But then, suddenly, suddenly you weren't!" he widens his eyes, like he's surprised all over again.

This guy is just an expert story teller, ain't he?

"You sud-den-ly didn't have a name-_uh_, a personality, _nothing," _he growls, his brow furrowing with abrupt annoyance. His mood swings make me even more afraid and a zillion times more uneasy.

"And that, uh, that _frustrated_ me at first-_tah_," he smacks his lips, and watches the dribble of blood rolling down from the prick in my lip, "Why would- How could..." he drifts off, like he's unsure how word what he wants to say. My watering eyes wander from his face to find Brant, since he's the only familiar (except maybe Cadence), semi-comforting person in this bus.

"Hey," the Joker snaps my face back to his, the knife digging into another part of my mouth, underneath the other cut, "_Listen to me_," he shakes my face a little, rattling my brain.

"Sorry, sorry," I croak quietly, trying to focus my eyes, with some difficulty.

"Good," he say says tersely, "As. I. Was. Say-ing... See, what some people don't know is I like to make a, uh,_ connection_ with the people I kill-_uh_. Re-mem-ber when you mentioned how I sah-possedly change my lil scar stories, hm?" he distractedly wipes some of the blood away on my chin with his thumb, waiting for my answer intently. I nod a little, not wanting to anger him (more).

"Mhm," he smiles, and it's an arrogant one, "Do you remember _why_ you thought-_tuh_ I change them up?" he doesn't wait for me to answer, "You said, and I qua-wote 'Maybe you're bored?'. Pretty good guess there, Green Eyes," he taps the knife against my lip, quirking his lips.

"But-_uh_, _not the right one_," he sing-songs, "Wanna know why I change my, uh, little story? Huh?" he leans in further, his right cheek pressed firmly to my left, the knife beneath my jaw. My vein's jump at the metal-to-skin contact.

"Yes," I answer, hoping he won't cut me. One of his hands, the one that isn't holding the knife, trails down my back, tracing my spinal cord. I shiver, the movement quaking against the clown plastered to me. He licks his lips, the tip of his serpentine tongue touching the rim of my ear.

"Beh-cause, it makes the kill more per-son-al," he explains to me slowly, like I'm slow or something.

"See, the story changes dah-pending on the person I'm telling it to. But-_uh _in order to do that, I hafta know something about them, no matter how _small_ or _in-sig-nifacant_ that something is," he's leaned into me so much the side of my face is pressed to his face and his neck. His warm skin on my cold, yet feverish flesh is awkward feeling.

"So, with _you_ I can't make up an, uh, _appropriate _story, because I know _nothing_ about you!" his voice rises with his frustration. His mouth, damp from all the tossing of saliva, presses against my ear.

"It's _infuriating_," he whispers, his voice suddenly becoming calmer, contradicting his words, "I mean, most women _try_ to keep themselves mysterious, but it just makes them all the more obvious-_sah. _You, you try too, but not 'cuz you're trying to be coy. No, no," he shakes his head, hitting the side of my face with his own lightly.

"You keep yourself a mystery, a puzzle because you needa, riiiigh-_tah_? But, but we're going off subject here. What-_tuh_ was the original question again?" he pulls back and I can feel the paint on my skin where his face was. I control the urge to wipe it off.

"Ah, yes, why is it that you aren't dead-_uh_ yet? What is it about you that, uh, keeps you alive? You wanna know the _real_ answer, Rumour?" I flinch when he uses my alias. I'm beginning to think telling him to call me that was a huge mistake.

"You. Are. Unpredictable," he infers, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before cutting back into mine.

"You never cease-_suh_ to surprise me, and darlin', that's simply a hoot," he grins leeringly, his hand on my back traveling down to the end of my tank top, and snaking up it. I suck in a harsh breath as the tips of his fingers trace patterns on my bare skin. I lick my lips, tasting the coppery taste of my blood, and then do it again, liking the taste. The Joker watches the action, dark eyes intense, so I stop.

"That's why I, ah, kissed you that day," my ears perk up at that, and he smiles knowingly, "You've been wonderin' bout that, haven'cha?" what he does next almost has me screaming. His tongue slips from his cavernous mouth, and trails along my lips, licking up my blood. I yelp weakly and I desperately try to get away, wiggling wildly. The hand beneath my shirt clamps down, keeping me in place and the knife returns to my neck.

"What you said to me," he murmurs, his mouth millimetres from mine, ignoring my struggles, "Caught me, _me,_ off guard. It filled me with this feeling of impulsiveness-_sah_ that I can't hardly describe. I'm a naturally impulsive-_vah_ guy, but you _increased_ the trait. You _still_ do, and I can't decide if I _like_ it... Or _hate_ it,"

Then he's kissing me.

His mouth moves against my clamped mouth fervently, his tongue probing my bottom lip. Begging for entrance. His face presses hard against mine, and the angle he's at sort of covers my nose, making it difficult to breathe. His scraggly hair sticks to my skin and his scent of gun-powder, fire and gasoline wreaks merry havoc on my senses, making me dizzy. The hand on my back slithers down to clutch my hip beneath my tank top. His other hand quickly pockets the knife, then palms the back of my head. Little whimpering noises escape my closed mouth, and my hands push weakly at the Joker's chest. He presses deeper into me, bruising my lips, and completely blocking off my nostrils. I can't breathe.

And he knows it.

My throat is convulsing in its need for air, and I instinctively open my mouth to breathe in a grateful gulp of air.

And his tongue lunges into my mouth. It traces along the insides of my cheeks, exploring me. My own tongue retreats to the back of my mouth, but his tongue hunts mine down. His corners my own, and rubs against it. A jolt goes through me, and suddenly I'm still; I become numb. I feel the Joker smirk against my mouth as his tongue strokes mine slowly. I shudder, and while I'm no longer struggling, I do try to pull my head back. He simply yanks my face back, and releases my tongue and mouth, only to suck on my bottom lip; on my blood. I grunt and wiggle my mouth to try and get his off. He doesn't, so I act on impulse; I bite his upper lip.

The Joker rears back, breathing hard, his eyes wild and his grease-paint even more smeared. His mouth is redder than usual, because the bite I gave him is bleeding. Not a lot, but enough that it's noticeable. His tongue slowly glides over the wound, and I begin hyperventilate all over again.

_Oh Jeezus, oh Jeezus he's going to hurt me, he's going kill me_

So when he begins to laugh, I'm surprised but no less tense. He laughs a lot, and it could mean anything. I close my eyes, when he tugs my face back to his. I wince when his mouth traces over my cheek, leaving a trail of blood. Marking me, again. I can smell the metallic scent of it on my face, and my stomach heaves a little.

_Oh god, I'm going to be sick_

"Hey, boss I-" and with that, I'm dumped abruptly out of the mad-man's lap. I open incredulous, but no less relieved eyes to see the goon, Maul, talking to the Joker, who has Maul's undivided attention. Maul's eyes keep flitting back to me while he talks to the Joker, but I can't make out the expression behind them.

"Boss, Apple's on the phone, says 'e needs ta talk to you 'bout something," Maul is saying, his Irish accent immediately reminding me of home and of Gramma. I retreat back to the window, pulling my knees up to my chest, and resting my open my mouth on the top of one of them. I fight back tears of humiliation, and I close my eyes, thinking of home.

Beside me, I hear the Joker speaking quietly, and I sneak a peek at him. He has a cell phone pressed to his ear, and he's hunched forward, his brow knit together. His red mouth moves quickly, and I can only make out a few words, like "Nitrate" and "Radio".

"No, no," he says louder, his voice dripping with obvious annoyance, "No cameras. It'll run the, uh... Surprise-_zuh_," he chuckles darkly, bouncing his knees as he continues talking into the phone. The conversation doesn't mean a thing to me so I stop listening, and let my suddenly heavy – why am I so tired lately?- eyes slide closed again.

My last coherent thought before I fall into a troubled sleep is:

_Where the hell did my gum go?_

**Yup, more Rumy-Jokey canoodling. Can't help myself. Again, no real romance here, at least not enough for it to be labelled as one.**

**Is Jokey's explanation for his stories good? And his explanation for his fascination for Rumy in character? Tell me! **

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	11. Chapter 11

***Checks reviews, eyes widening*... Heh?**

**...HAJAGAFJGYAHAJHA?**

**I cannot even begin to thank you all enough for all you're kind words and encouragement. You have no idea how good it is for my self esteem, which generally is at about a C (it's true, I took a test and I got 66 out of 100). I especially wish to thank two newbies, who reviewed with so much enthusiasm I'm still blushing: Crazylanie93 and C0nt0rt3dM1nd. And to all my other fantastic reviewers, this ones-as are all the others- for you!**

**Oh, and I'm glad you liked the gum thing... *grins***

**Okie-dokie, just a warning: this chappie contains minor drug-use, and when I say minor, I do mean minor. And, I in no way condone the use of drugs. Just so ya know. **

**Disclaimer: I make no money off this silly little story *grumbles bitterly* so that must mean I in no way own any characters from TDK that pop up in here. They belong to DC and Mr. Nolan(lucky bastards). **

**P.S Check out the note at the end.**

**Onward!**

Chpt. 11 **Oscar Worthy**

'_Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made' ~ Immanuel Kant_

"Marjorie... Marj... MARJORIE!" a voice yells in my ear. I jump and my eyes shoot open. I look around, shifty eyed as the cobwebs of sleep begin to recede

"Heh?" I garble, looking bleary eyed down at the person who yelled at me. It's Brant.

_Oh, yeah_

I remember now.

I'm in a school bus. With a bunch of people from Gotham General. And we're being held hostage.

By the Joker...

... I think I'll go back to sleep now.

But Brant stops that attempt by shaking my shoulders.

"What?" I snap, narrowing my eyes at the teenager. Brant swallows hard and looks at my mouth. I furrow my brow in confusion.

"What, Brant?" I ask a little less impatiently.

"Uh, we're...we stopped," he replies shakily, still looking at my mouth. I look out the window, and yes, we have indeed stopped. We seem to be a parking garage.

"How long was I out?" I question, looking back down at Brant.

"Only about fifteen minutes," he replies, and I notice how wide-eyed he is.

"You okay, kid?" I probe, frowning a little. He nods, but points to my mouth.

"You've got... He got... It's all over you're..." he stumbles over his words, and his face reddens. My frown deepens and I touch a hand to my mouth, only to see its red when I bring it back to my face.

_Wait why's it..._

Then my eyes widen. I squeak in horror and start rubbing at the skin around my mouth frantically.

His make-up... It came off when we... He... He got make-up all over my mouth... Oh god.

"_Is it gone_?" I demand of Brant, wild-eyed. He winces and points to a spot on my mouth. I lick my palm and scrub at my face deliriously. The friction on my bruised face is painful but I just press harder.

"Marjorie, stop, it's gone!" Brant insists, worry laced in his cracking voice. Taking several deep breaths, I put my hands in my lap, my face still burning from the chafing.

"So, why did the Jok-" Brant begins but I shoot him a glare so he shuts up.

"Do you know what's going to happen next?" I ask, and Brant shrugs.

_Helpful_

I look up at the front and shiver when I see the Joker talking to several of his men. I recognize three of them; Graves, Maul and Dee. There are a few others I've never seen before. They talk for a few more minutes, then the Joker turns to face us. I see he's _almost_ in full apparel now; shirt buttoned, vest done up, gloves on, suspenders hooked. However, his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. He leans against the drivers seat, one arm stretched up to grip the rail on the roof of the bus, regarding us with a Grinchy smile on his smeared face.

"I, uh, I can't say you were the best crowd-_duh_ ever," he begins, snickering to himself, "But you, hmm... We still had a _hoot, _huh?"

I notice he seems to be chewing on something...

_Oh good grief_

I think I just found my gum.

...Ew

"If you'd ever. So. _Kindly _make your way outta the bus-_uh_, these _kind_ men here will escort you all to your rooms-_suh_," he drawls, spinning a gun around his index finger nonchalantly.

The hostages begin to murmur fearfully amongst each other, but show no signs of resistance. The Joker shakes his head and frowns, like he's trying to shake away a thought, then spins on his heel and trudges out of the bus. I watch out the window as he strides away from the bus and to a nearby staircase. I notice he seems to be muttering to himself. And chewing _my _ gum (_shudder)_ furiously.

I don't take either as a good sign.

"A'right, you heard 'im, make yoh way outta the bus," Maul yells, briefly touching the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. People begin standing reluctantly, fear and tension making the air heavy. Brant stands and I suppose I should too. We shuffle slowly out the bus, not really wanting to follow their orders, but too afraid to put up a fight. We're lined up against the bus, and several more men come over to stand with the rest of the goons. They are carrying poorly made home-made clown masks and miscellaneous articles of clothing. They divide us up; five or six of us per around four to five clowns. Brant grabs my forearm and I allow it. Luckily, the goons divide us into the same group. One of the goon's is Maul. The goons, guns brandished, lead us to the same staircase the Joker had taken. I clutch my satchel hard, begging god for them not to take it away.

"C'mon, c'mon, get a move on," Dee shouts from a ways behind me. I'm so glad I'm not in his group. We trot up the stairs, fearful of getting the armed men angry. We climb higher, passing many floors. As we get closer to the top, the groups start dividing up. Dee and the other goons take their group of five hostages through a door into one of the floors as the rest of the hostages keep moving. At the next level, Maul and four other goons lead my group through a door; Me, Brant, two doctors, a nurse and Mike Engel. I watch as Graves' group (which has the most hostages and goons in it) head up to the next level. We are lead into a dusty, basically empty floor-apart from the chairs and desks spread everywhere- that looks like it hasn't been used in ages. The walls are all windows, giving us an excellent view of the city on one side, the harbour on the other. Consulting the map of the city in my head, I realize we're in the old Prewitt building.

Maul comes over and takes my satchel, nodding to me- _he remembers me_- and the nurse's purse. I watch as he dumps them in a corner, panic and trepidation settling in my veins. But, there's really nothing I can do.

"Alright, we got some time to kill," a goon I don't recognize tells us. We all shudder at the word _kill_.

"So," he continues, "Just take a seat, shut-up and above all, don't do anything stupid,"

Unsure what to do, the doctors, the nurse and Engel plop onto the ground. The hospital employees all huddle together, and Mike sits nearby. Brant moves to sit near them, and since he still has a grip on my arm, I allow myself to be pulled along. We sit down near the doctors; instinctively wanting to be closer to people that could help us. I mean, think about it. In any kind of dangerous situation I would much rather be close by a doctor than a news reporter; apart from reporting the, well, _news_, reporters are virtually useless.

The goons stand close by. I notice they haven't put on the clown masks, but rather they have set them down a little ways from them, on top of the pile of clothes. One of the masks, a crudely painted sneering face, seems to be looking right at me. I turn away with a shiver.

For awhile, can't be sure how long, we six hostages sit on the ground, not saying much besides telling each other our names. One of the doctors is a man of around fifty with greying black hair, coffee skin and named Dr. Aiden Cotton. The other doctor looks around thirty and has pretty grey eyes; his name is Dr. Levi Roland. The nurse, Sage Tavish, looks like she just got out of med school. She's a cute little thing with dark red curls and big brown eyes. Of course, we already know who Engel is. Brant tells them his name, and I say my name is Marjory.

After introductions, we remain silent.

I get out another piece of gum from my pocket (hoping I'll be able to keep this one).

Brant fidgets and doesn't let go of my arm.

Roland swears every once and awhile.

Cotton may or may not be sleeping.

Tavish is on the verge of tears.

Engel is sweating like a pig.

We wait. Wait for our so called _purposes_.

What a load of shit. I am sure that whatever _higher power_, be it God or Zeus or Allah, whatever you like, did not intend for the only reason us hostages to be on this green earth is to be part of a clown's diabolical plan. And even if you don't believe in some greater being, still, it's a little ludicrous that our reason for existence is _this_.

A little later, the door to the staircase (which after scanning the room turns out to be the only way out of this floor) swings open, crashing against the wall with a loud _bang__**.**_ We jump and swivel around, only to shrink back when we see it's the Joker entering the room, a bounce in his step. I scoot back a little, and avert my eyes.

"Is he going to kill us?" Brant whispers, his voice wavering.

"Shh," I tell him, unable to answer his question. He moves closer to me, and rests the side of his head on my arm. My skin tingles uncomfortably; as it normally does with skin-to-skin contact with someone I'm not familiar with. But, I let him. I won't admit it, but I feel the need to be comforted too, and despite the tingles, Brant being here does lend some comfort. I guess I've officially forgiven the kid for not standing up for me.

I steal a glance and see the clown doesn't seem at all interested with us. Rather, he is speaking with the goons, his back to us. I see that his jacket isn't even in sight this time. He's speaking primarily to Maul. He laughs, then lowers his head slightly, and looks over his shoulder at us, a teeth-baring smile on his insidious face. My muscles seize up, and my eyes drop. The cold feeling of dread is back with a vengeance, and I wonder where that fiery hate has gone. I would much rather feel_ that_ than _this. _

_Well, at least he doesn't seem to be chewing anymore. That's an upside, right?_

Brant suddenly stiffens and gasps quietly, and I look up to see a goon, that Maul fellow, striding toward us. I scoot back a little, and Brant clutches me. But, Maul isn't coming for us. Instead, he makes a bee-line for Engel. The reporter cowers as Maul towers over him, then reaches down to haul Engel up by his collar. Engel yells out, and flails but Maul is taller and stronger, so he easily drags him away from the rest of us.

Roland moves to stand, wanting to play the hero, but the rest of the cronies unclick the safeties on their guns, and point them at us. He reluctantly backs down, and comforts Tavish as her tears bubble over. I hug my knees to my chest and watch Maul drag Engel toward the Joker, whose frame is shaking from silent laughter. Maul moves around Engel, keeping a hard grip on his arms. The Joker, being a couple inches taller than Engel, leans his upper body down toward him, his head hunching down into his neck so he can be face-to-face with Engel. His voice carries, echoing in the abandoned floor.

"I have a... _job-uh_ for you, _Misssster_ Engel," the Joker informs him, his voice patronizingly clowny.

And his laugh undeniably evil.

~/~

A couple minutes later, the Joker and his men have set up a perverse version of the GCN news set. After some discussion , maybe a little arguing, and a whole lot of struggling from Engel, they manage to hang- _literally hang_- Mike Engel...

...Upside down.

I'm not fully sure how they did it, but they managed to get bungee cords around Engel's ankles, then looped the other end onto a hook on the ceiling. Then, the rest of the men- Maul and the others- pulled on the bungee cord, which hoisted Engel, rather roughly, at least a foot off the ground, completely upside down.

And it is there he now hangs, with the goons keeping him up.

The entire thing reminds me of rock-wall climbing, you know, the whole belay thing.

Behind Engel, the goons had put up a banner, (upside down of course) with the words _Breaking News_ slopped onto it with crude, blood-red letters. Actually, it could very well be blood, seeing as the other hostages and I weren't there when it was made. A goon, a rather short one, had left and then brought it in, unrolling it, spreading the messy letters even more. We are instructed to sit to the side of the 'set', close by the other goons. So the men can watch us, and so we can enjoy the _show._

That painted clown is a sick, sadistic son of a bitch. Prancing around, putting on a show for us, as well as Gotham.

Anyways, now the Joker is in front of Engel, leaning in close to him. I can hear him whispering to Engel; I can't distinguish exact words, but while his voice is hushed, the Joker's tone is threatening and sinister. Engle is shivering all over, and is looking anywhere but the Joker, which only causes the Joker to lock onto his ear, like he's a disobedient child, and he wrenches Engel back to look at him. Engel begins mewling and snivelling in terror, but he keeps his eyes on the Joker now, who keeps murmuring to him in the same malevolent tenor. Every once and awhile Engel nods.

After a bit, the Joker releases his ear, which is now beat red, and he swings back and forth on the cord. Satisfied, the Joker steps away and talks to Maul for a moment, his voice still too quiet to hear. Maul leaves his spot holding the cord, moving toward another end of the floor. He comes back a moment later, carrying what seems to be Tavish's purse; it's a pink _Coach_ knock-off and actually pretty cute...

_Ugh_

Now is _not_ the time to be female.

Tavish, sitting beside Cotton, who is beside Brant (and Brant is beside me), notices Maul with her purse and jolts, her cheek muscles twitching.

_She must really like that knock-off_

Maul tosses it fluidly to the Joker, who catches it easily, even though he was having a staring contest with Roland. Roland blinks, and with a small smile the Joker looks away and down at the ultra-feminine bag in his hand. He straddles one of the chair's that's strewn all over the floor and unzips the purse. Tavish's eyebrows now begin to twitch, and Cotton tries to comfort her. The Joker rummages through the purse, his tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth.

I switch my gaze to the other goons. Maul, who has returned to the cord, is still as I remember; chocolate milk skin, buzzed but growing-in platinum blond hair, but now I notice how tall he is. Even taller than the Joker, by at least two inches.

Three of the other goons are nothing special; clichéd and what a classic criminal should look like. As in, stained wife-beaters, unkempt hair (facial as well), and tattoo sleeves. And while they are cocky and driven by power and greed, I can tell they are afraid of their Boss. Only one goon, besides Maul, sticks out, and that's the short one. He looks about five-foot-four and a half, which is pretty short for a dude. He has an ash-blond crew cut and is intensely muscular, likely to compensate for his unfortunate height. He also has the air of fear around him, but also an air of respect for his Boss. Even an air of pride, but for what? Being involved in this madman's terrorism? He won't be getting any medals of valour for that.

Soon, the Joker seems to have found what he was looking for, and he drops the purse to the ground, which results in the items inside clattering and spilling out. Including a couple tampons. I don't have to look at Tavish to know she's mortified. The other goons, except Maul, laugh and jeer, wrinkling their noses.

I never got why guy's hate tampons so much. I mean, yeah, used ones are gross for everybody, but I don't see the issue with unused ones...

_...Anywho_, the Joker holds what looks like a tube of lipstick to his face. His black eyes flick up to us hostages, and land on Tavish. She notices his gaze and gasps quietly, shrinking into Cotton. The Joker beams gleefully, and gets up off the chair. When he begins strolling toward us, Brant cowers into my side, but I notice that while he is afraid, he also is staring at the Joker the same way his crew does when the Joker gives them orders.

With _respect _and _wonderment_.

The Joker hums a pleasant tune as he reaches us, and crouches in front of Tavish. He fiddles with her lipstick a little, while scanning her fear stricken face. Still humming, a tune that reminds me of _Penny Lane_ by the Beatles, he pops off the cap of the lipstick; the colour is a vibrant red. Personally, I don't even think that the colour is Tavish's shade, her skin tone is too fair for such a bright colour...

_Sigh... Why am I so female?_

"Siren Red, hmm?" the Joker finally stops humming, waving the lipstick in her face. Tavish stares a moment, then nods slightly, taking frantic puffs of poorly inhaled air.

"Good _choice_," he says, sucking on the inside of his left cheek. His eyes leave Tavish to look over the lipstick. He rubs a little on his gloved thumb.

"Has a, uh, nice texture to it," he goes on, like he's selling the lipstick on one of those stupid infomercials everyone hates (except Gramma. She loved those things).

"Not too sticky, just enough shine-_nuh_," he lists off, "And none of that, eh, trashy _shim-mer_ that some lipsticks have," he licks his thumb, and everyone (us hostages) shudders at the reptilian action. He swishes his mouth a little, considering the taste.

"Not a bad _taste_ either, but I, ah, _prefer_ fah-lavoured_-duh_ lipstick m'self. Yanno, like cinnamon or mint-_uh _ flavoured ones, hm?" he babbles, and Tavish only stares at him, her face a mixture of horror and slight confused disbelief.

"But, while I am _sure_ this part-ic-ular shade looks _lovely_ on, ah, you," the Joker cuffs her cheek lightly before standing and wandering over to Engel, "I'm willing to bet-_tuh_ it'll look simply _divine_ on Mister Engle over here," he grabs Engel's ear again, eliciting a pained yelp from the sweaty reporter. The Joker laughs throatily and lets go of his ear, only to latch onto Engel's hair, aggressively yanking Engel closer to him. Then, he begins smearing the red lipstick over Engel's mouth, giggling jovially all the while.

"Definitely you're, ah, colour, Mister Engle!" the Joker snickers happily, spreading the lipstick upwards (_downwards?) _along his cheek, giving him a mockery of the Joker's own 'smile'.

Albeit, upside-down.

He draws over the crooked, messy line a couple times, smudging the curve even more, before repeating the process on Engel's opposite cheek. The entire time the news reporter is keening chokingly, closing his eyes as tears leak out, falling off his cheeks and splattering onto the ground. His face is beat red, since he's, you know, not exactly right way up. My stomach turns in sympathy and guilt that we are unable to help this man. But, I suppose it could be worse. The Joker isn't torturing him, per se. At least not physically (although I bet his and head are pretty sore).

The Joker finishes up Engel's new smile, then turns to the shorter goon, and orders, "Goliath... Go get the cam-er-a,"

_Goliath?_

Is that his real name, or is it supposed to be ironic; the Joker's attempt at humour, perhaps?

Pfft, I'll admit, it's kinda funny, but not in an I-want-to-laugh way, more I-smile-inside-my-mind way.

Goliath (_Pfft) _nods, leaves his post and goes out the exit. The Joker screws the lipstick back down meticulously, then puts the cap back on before skipping back over to Tavish. She recoils from him as he kneels in front of her. He grabs one of her tiny hands in one of his own, and she cries out, all the while resisting the urge to pull away. The Joker tsks at her, then presses the lipstick into her palm, hard. She winces and starts to cry again.

"_Thanks_," he hisses, then adds, "Doll,"

He forces her hand to close around the lipstick, and pats that hand soothingly (_ha_) a moment before springing back up, laughing manically at a private joke that no one else gets. He slinks over to one of the desks, his gait bouncy and smooth, yet lopsided all at the same time. The Joker pulls out several pieces of paper, and a thick red sharpie, then begins scribbling frenetically.

Seeing as he is not really doing much at the moment, I allow myself to relax a small fraction. I watch Engel sway, his face turning an unhealthy shade of reddish-violet.

Goliath (_pfft, haha) _returns several minutes later, the GCN camera in hand.

"Here ya are, boss," he says gruffly, placing the camera on the desk. The Joker stops his scribbling, and leaps to his feet with flourish. He nabs the camera, and skips his way over to Engel. He grabs Engel's hair and says something to him, too quietly for the rest of us to hear, and Engel nods feverishly. Satisfied, the Joker lets go and grabs the papers off the desk. He pushes them into Engel's hands, the words upside down. The Joker steps back, and tucks the camera under his arm. He makes a camera lens with his fingers, shuffling back a little, as if he wants to get the bestest angle ever. Nodding a little, he rolls up his sleeves.

"Alrighty, Mister Engel," the Joker begins, his voice pleasant, "All you hafta do is, ehm, remember you're lines, and make suuuure the au-di-ence can see the words. Piece-a-cake for a pro-fess-ional like you, mm'right? Don't miss-_suh_ a single word, or that lil, ah, _scenario _we talked about will become a. _Brutal_. Re-ality. _Get me_?" he barks the last part, making Engel flinch violently, then grovel piteously.

"_Good_," the Joker purrs, tinkering with the camera a moment. He leans a little bit, so he can get the full picture, holding the camera in both hands.

"Okey-dokey, take one... And..." Pause for affect, "_Action!"_

"This is-"

"_Cut!"_

_Oh, for the love of..._

"W-wha-"

"You hafta introduce yourself first-_uh!"_

"But... You t-told me to introduce myself after I say 'This is _Gotham Tonight'..."_

"... Did I actually?

"Y-yes, ... Sir,"

"Huh. Well, introduce yourself _first_ on the next-_tuh_ take, yeah?"

"O-oh...kay,"

"Peachy. Now, take two... _Action_,"

"Hello, I-"

"_Cut!"_

_ For God's sake!_

"You don't hafta, uh, be so _polite_! This is a _threat_, not _Skype_; there's no need for pleasantries-_zuh,_ Mister Engle. Now, just. Say. The words,"

"Ye-"

"_Take three, action_!"

"I'm Mike Engel from _Gotham Tonight,_" Engel drops the first cue card and holds up another, and continues, "What does it take to make you wanna join in?" The Joker is nodding, his scraggly hair bouncing limply, and mouthing the words along with Engel, "You failed to kill the lawyer," Engel goes on, and now the Joker's mouthing's have turned into mumblings, "I've gotta get you off the bench-"

"-_Bench,"_ the Joker echoes, using his knees to bounce up and down a little. Maybe he's impatient? Or excited? Can't tell.

"-and into the game-"

"- _Game,"_ the clown repeats, attempting- and failing, miserably- to stifle his giggles.

Engel drops another cue card, and keeps going, "Come nightfall, this city is mine-"

"-_Mine,"_

"-and anyone left here plays by my rules-"

"- _Rules,"_

"- If you don't want to be in the game-"

"- _Get out now," _the reporter and the terrorist say in unison. The Joker's ill-contained laughter is causing him to jostle the camera around.

"- But the bridge and tunnel crowd are sure in for a surprise," Engel looks at the camera, "_Ha ha ha_," he deadpans, and the Joker giggles intensify as he turns the camera over in his hand to turn it off, likely getting into the picture.

"An _Oscar_ worthy performance, Mister Engel," the Joker chortles as he pulls the tape out of the video camera, "Really quite, ah, _moving_, dontcha think, _audience_?"

Silence.

Oh, he's speaking to us.

He raises his brow and utters an _"hmmm?"_

We look at each other, then back at the Joker and start clapping tentatively. His painted face breaks into a wide smile, and he turns to Maul, gesturing at Engel. Maul and the others begin lowering Engel to the ground, and I pray they won't drop him. Engel flops to the ground, and begins snivelling in relief as the blood rushes back from his head. The Joker hands the tape to Maul; he inclines his head to the Joker, then makes his leave. Likely to deliver the video to- Um, I don't actually know for sure.

I imagine likely the police, I mean that's where _I'd _send _my_ threat to an entire city.

Goliath unties Engel, then _escorts_ him over to sit with the rest of us hostages. He sits down beside Cotton, only too grateful to be right way up again.

"Rodge-it _is_ Rodge, right?," the Joker calls to one of his men, "You got the, euh, _time-mah_?" The crony, a mean looking fucker, lifts his head, and shrugs before returning to his doobie. The Joker scowls and makes an annoyed noise in his throat.

"Uh," pipes up Brant, and I have the urge to facepalm. The Joker looks over, licking his lips.

_Dumbass kid_

"It's half past seven, the sun'll be setting right 'bout now," Brant squeaks, looking from his watch to one of the many windows. I look too, and sure enough, the sun is nearly set. The Joker quirks his lips, and his eyes roll up, like he's trying to figure out something in his head.

"We still got time," he mutters to himself, pacing about, looking out the windows, still muttering to himself. He stops, and laughs out of nowhere. He comes walking back toward us, a smile on his face; like he just thought of something brilliant.

And for everyone else, that is not good.

"Hey, uh, Rodge? Make yourself useful and call-_luh_ Vlad and gettim' to bring the Chechen's lil, ah, _princes_ over here, mmkay?"

Rodge looks up, and takes a deep drag, before flicking the joint away. He walks past us, purposely blowing the smoke from his mouth toward us. We cough and scrunch our noses at the skunk-like smell. Rodge leaves- _thank Jeezus_- and the Joker waltzes toward the discarded doobie, and proceeds to stomp down on it. He grinds his worn brown loafers against it, 'til there's nothing left but soot and ash.

For some reason, this sends prickly shivers down my spine.

**So, I was studying the 'News Report Scene' and I did my best to do the behind the scenes. It may seem a little confusing because I originally had it so Engel and the rest of the hostages were in a small office space on their floor, and Engel was tied to a chair. But, then it came to my attention that Engel was indeed strung upside down during that scene. And, because that scene is so shaky and you don't see much of what's going on in the room, I had to make up how the Joker pulled it off. Essentially, I had to re-write it all. So, sorry if it seems confusing. If you spot something that makes absolutely no sense, pleeeeease tell me! **

**Oh yeah, and to that one reviewer who mentioned my lack of the Man-Bat, you are right, B-Man is the bee's knee's, but I felt that if I had him in here too often he'd notice Rumour (although he doesn't mind his surroundings all that well :P ) and if he knew of her involvement in this whole sitch, things would get even more complicated than they already are. Also, truth be told, I'm terrified to write the guy. I feel I don't know him well enough and I'm afraid I'd screw him up. **

**ONE MORE THING... Thank you to everyone who read my one-shot **_**Birdie in a Cage**_**. It was a pleasure to write and I appreciate you're viewing of it, immensely so. And, if you haven't checked it out, what's the harm in taking a wee peeksy, hm?**

**Anywho thank you for reading. You make my moment, day, week and life in general. Truly, you keep me going.**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you all for the reviews. It seems I am yet another FF who has fallen prey to the review addiction. But, of all the things to be addicted to, I'd say this ones the least concerning, unhealthy and dangerous.**

**Okay, this chapter goes out to my recently deceased hamster, Shmee (but my family called him Fatboy). In his honour, his name makes a little cameo in this chappie. R.I.P Fatboy, you were well-fed and certainly well-loved. **

**Also, I find the time-line for the whole Ferries thing-a-mah-jig very vague. I mean, in the movie the Ferries head out at dusk, but then its fully dark out and they've hardly made it anywhere when the engine go down. And, it never indicates the time-period from when the Joker made his threat and Batman goes in and tussles with the clown. So, I'm kinda just making it up. It's gonna be far from perfect so please bear with me.**

**Warnings: This one contains violence and death... You've been warned.**

**Disclaimer: Herm, the Batman cast keep ignoring my emails about wanting to buy them, so no, I don't own any characters by DC or Nolan... Pity, what fun we would have**

**Enjoy , and read the note at the bottom! **

**P.S, heh, sorry if you read this and it ended then started again... Mah bad... Thank you to the reviewer who spotted that... **

Chpt. 12 **False Sympathy **

'_Men are more moral than they think they are and far more immoral than they can imagine '_

_~Sigmund Freud_

Tavish snores.

I _hate_ the sound of snoring. Ever since I had to share a blow up mattress with this girl from Elementary school while at a sleepover-birthday party. There weren't enough blow-ups for all of us, and this girl had a bit of an obsession for me, so instantly she volunteered us to share a bed.

She snuggled in way too close for comfort.

And her elephant-like snores were in my ear _all_ night.

Tavish's aren't very loud, in fact their rather soft and feminine, but the sound is still grating.

After the 'News Coverage', Maul had released Engel, and now he sits beside Roland, still shivering. It's been about half an hour. And guess what, I'm pretty bored. So is Brant. He's literally twiddling his thumbs. We are sitting against a wall, facing the window-wall that overlooks the Harbour. We have a great view. The sun is languorously lowering from the sky, making a rather pretty sunset; soft with swirly lavender clouds and a honey-dew sky. Inappropriately beautiful, considering the situation we are in. It's a little hard to admire nature at the moment.

Tavish jerks awake when the door swings open and we all crane our heads to see who it is. It's just Goliath. We sag with relief; we had thought it would be You-Know-Who, and no, I don't mean the noseless _Harry Potter _villain. We have our villain to deal with, thanks.

"People are starting to arrive at the Harbour," he announces, glancing over at us before joining Maul and the rest of the men. They go to the windows, peering out.

"So, I'm guessing the tape was delivered," Rodge states ingeniously, sucking on yet another joint.

"Yeah, fucktard, it was," Goliath shoots back, annoyed. Fit merely shrugs, blowing smoke in the short man's face.

"Bet the city's goin crazy," Rodge comments, a smile in his voice.

"That's the point, idiot," Goliath sighs, rubbing his face tiredly, "Most of the population will be on the Ferries,"

"Fuckin genius plan, putting those-" Rodge begins but Maul cuffs him upside the head, then jerks his face in our direction. Fit gets the idea, and shuts up.

"What now?" Rodge says instead, looking at us over his shoulder.

"Is it too soon to get them ready?"Goliath queries, looking pointedly at Maul.

"We'll get'em half way ready. N'point gettin' them done up fully yet," Maul decides, looking at us too. For some reason I'm not afraid of Maul; likely because his Irish brogue reminds me of Gramma's.

The three goon's turn to face us, and we shrink against the wall. Rodge and Goliath advance toward us, while Maul moves toward one of the corner's of the floor; where the pile of masks and clothes are.

_Oh shit_

I'm starting to understand what's going on here.

Rodge and Goliath pull their guns from their waistbands and motion with them for us to get up. Goliath glances over Brant, Engel and I briefly before turning to the hospital employee's.

"Take off your clothes," Goliath orders gruffly, while Rodge leers at them. Tavish begins crying again, and the two doctors shake with anger. Goliath cocks the gun, and reluctantly the doctors begin shrugging off their white hospital coats.

"You two, pretty," Rodge sneers at Tavish, which only makes her cry harder.

"Come off it, Rodge," Maul says sternly as he comes over, carrying the pile of clothes, "We don' need the lasses', ya know tha',"

"Won't be enough for all of us. More guys will be here soon," Rodge argues, his beady eyes still on Tavish. There's a greedy glint in them, and I thank Jeezus that he seems to be into gingers.

"We got extra," Maul states firmly, dropping the pile of clothes. He's right; in the pile there are several pairs of scrubs and hospital coats. Rodge grumbles, but doesn't argue.

Roland and Cotton are now only in their boxer's and undershirts, looking intensely uncomfortable. Maul sifts through the pile, while Goliath and Rodge keep their guns on us. Eventually, Maul tosses the doctors each a pair of loose jeans, and large sweat shirts.

"Put these on," Maul orders efficiently. Roland and Cotton immediately begin pulling on the jeans. He moves on to Engel, pushing a pile of clothes into his arms.

"Either strip or put 'em on ovah' top, I don' care," he says off-handily. Engel nods vigorously and strips off his shirt and dress pants; I look away.

"What about small fry and Blondie?" Rodge asks, and I look to see his eyes are on Brant and me. I glare dispassionately at him, and he jeers at me.

_What a piece of work_

"He can keep the pants, jus' give him a sweater and a vest," Maul answers, throwing said articles of clothes to Brant. He shakily begins putting them on. That only leaves Tavish and I.

"And the ladies?" Rodge asks with a fat, dirty grin, mostly directed toward Tavish. She's still crying, by the way.

"Red'll hafta change her pants, so'll Blond, then they can just put jackets over top; baggy ones," Maul responds, looking at us not-unkindly, but still with authority.

"You heard the Leprechaun," Rodge heckles, "Strip,"

After a moment of hesitation, I sigh but unzip my pants, tilting my chin up with pride I don't feel. I pull off my pants and Maul hands me a pair of jeans, giving me the same nod he did when he dropped me off last night.

_Last night_

Was that only yesterday?

Seems a lot longer.

Anyways, I pull on the jeans, and Maul tosses me a plaid jacket thing; something a lumber jack would wear. I pull it on, and find that's way too big for me, and incredibly bulky. It hides all evidence that I'm female, which I'm sure is the point. Considering the circumstances, it doesn't smell terrible; a little musty, but it has the faint smell of laundry detergent. The jeans, however, are terrible. They're practically pooling off of me, and I can't help but thank my lucky stars at my choice of underwear for today; yellow boy shorts with orange, red and blue air balloons all over them. They sound childish but they are actually really cute.

Besides, I have a pair back at my apartment with ducks holding umbrellas and wearing rubber boots on them, so these are pretty mature for me.

Tavish, after being firmly coaxed by Maul, and sneeringly threatened by Rodge, finally takes off her scrubs, but only if they all turn around; all of us. The goons, the doctors, Engel, Brant. Yep, even me. Rodge doesn't like it, but Maul seems to have some authority over him, so he's forced to obey.

After a couple minutes, we, the hostages, no longer look like the victims. We look even more like goons than the goons do.

"Put your hoods up; hide your hair," Goliath tells Tavish and I, and we obey. The men begin taking off their clothes, and we turn away; my cheeks burn. When we look back at them a couple minutes later, they are dressed like doctors. An acidic feeling, one I'm now familiar with, creeps up my throat.

We are allowed to sit back down again, and we do, scratching at the unfamiliar clothes on our bodies.

And we continue waiting.

~/~

The sun's behind the buildings, the rays peeking out, when more men enter the floor. For the last hour or so (Brant's watch was taken away so none of us know the time, and we don't dare ask our captors) we've just sat, staring out over the Harbour. Now, something's happening again, and I brace myself for whatever is thrown at us.

Several more men, all dressed like doctors as well, come into the room. They greet the three men that had kept us company for last few hours.

"Boss says people are starting to line up to get on the boats," one of the new men say, "And says they won't actually be heading out 'til closer to ten,"

"But he says to get the guests ready," another man adds.

I'm guessing we're the _guests._

Goliath digs out a roll of silver duct tape from his hospital coat. I swallow with difficulty.

"C'mon," Goliath says to no one specifically then begins walking toward us, his body language determined. A couple of the men follow behind, keeping their rifles on us levelly.

"Please," Cotton pleads as they come closer, "We've cooperated,"

"Nothin' personal, bro," Rodge calls over, "Just following orders,"

"Rodge, shut the fuck up and bring over the masks," Goliath snaps as he stops in front of Cotton. We cower against the wall, completely helpless. I feel so useless. If I had my satchel I'd-

Wait, shit, I forgot my gun at home.

I didn't realize that while talking to Maroni.

Shit, thinking the gun was on me was the only reason I had enough balls to banter with him. Imagine if that had gone worse? I'd be a dead woman.

Although, this situation isn't much better, is it?

Goliath crouches in front of Cotton, and the other men stand in front of the rest of us, shoving the barrels in our faces in warning.

Resistance is futile and all that, I suppose.

"Hands out in front of you," Goliath barks, and Cotton shakily complies, stretching his arms out toward the goon. Then, Goliath begins meticulously taping Cotton's wrists together.

"Should we get the props? Graves has 'em on his floor," the man who has a gun in Brant's face asks. Over-hearing the question, Maul answers.

"No'yet, just get 'em taped and masked and we'll do the rest later,"

Nodding, Goliath continued wrapping layer after layer of tape. The way he's doing it is so Cotton can still move his hands a little, which doesn't make much sense. Don't they want us completely immobile? Goliath finishes with his wrists, then stretches the tape out, the ripping sound ominous, then quickly slaps the piece of tape over Cotton's mouth. Instantly he starts making muffled protests, and shaking his head.

"Mask," Goliath says, and Rodge throws one over, hitting him in the back. Mumbling under his breath, Goliath lifts the elastic band of the clown mask over and around Cotton's head, then adjusts the mask on his face. Cotton gets a goofy faced clown mask.

Goliath repeats the process with Engel, then Tavish, Brant, and me. I don't protest when he tapes my wrists and mouth, but I do sigh in resignation when he puts my mask on. And of course, it's the sneering face from earlier.

Cotton is Goofy, Engel is Stony (his mask looks like it's high), Tavish is Melancholy (her mask seems especially sad), Brant is Cheeky (of course he gets the most impish mask), I'm Pervy (that's the kind of sneer it's doing, or at least in my opinion). The only one left that needs a mask is Roland. His seems sick; it's crudely painted face is a greenish hue and its eye holes almost seem droopy. Goliath tapes his hands, and reaches to put the mask when out of fuckin' nowhere, I swear to god, Roland _head butts_ Goliath in the face.

Hard.

Goliath yells out, and lands on his ass on the ground. With surprising speed, Roland yanks the gun from Goliath's waistband and wobbles to his feet. I knew it was a bad idea to tape our hands like this. Tavish screams, the sound stifled under the tape, and Brant and Cotton yell encouragements beneath their masks. Engel and I simply stare in shock. The other men's faces darken, and they move to advance but Roland begins waving the gun around like a crazy man, shouting muffled commands from beneath the tape. The men freeze, and eye the man stonily. The two closest to him back off. Roland continues yelling things we don't understand, and the men try to talk him down.

"C'mon bro, just cooperate. We ain't the ones you should be afraid of. If the Boss knew 'bout this you'd be in deep fuckin' shit. If you sit back down, give us the gun and put the mask on, we won't tell 'im 'bout this, 'kay?" Rodge tries to reason with him, in his own numbskull way.

Clearly, it doesn't work because Roland begins backing away toward the door, trying to get us to come with him. Cotton struggles to his feet, as well as Brant and Tavish. Engel and I remain seated.

Something doesn't feel right.

These guys could easily just-

_**BANG**_

The hostages and I scream from under the masks, but Roland screams loudest as his legs seems to explode. He drops to the ground, blood pooling out of his leg at an alarming rate. We scream again when we realize he's been shot, and by who.

The Joker leans against the doorframe of the exit, jacket back on, blowing on the 'smoking' gun, like John Wayne in a cowboy movie.

"Boss!" one of the men yell, and they all straighten their posture, turning their undivided attention toward the clown. The rest of us cower, including me. I clutch Brant's pant leg to the best of my ability seeing as my hands are tied.

"Havin' a lil trouble, boys-_zuh?_" the Joker asks nonchalantly, straightening from the door frame and sauntering casually into the room. We whimper when Roland begins wailing and squirming on the ground. This all reminds me of that day at the bank, when the Bank Manager was shot.

I _really _gotta stop being taken hostage.

None of the men answer the Joker, until Maul steps forward.

"One of our guest's jus' got a lil rebellious, s'all,"

The Joker twists his mouth to one side, and meanders towards Roland, who's still making subdued sounds of agony on the ground. His dark crimson blood is making a huge puddle, and I'm terrified that it's going to pool toward us. I'm having issues breathing, a combination of fear, the tape/mask and my Cleithrophobia. The Joker crouches beside Roland, tsking, the sound metallic in my ears.

"Tryin' to leave then, doc-_cuh_?" he asks him nonchalantly, taking Roland by his hair and lifting his head so they can be eye to eye.

"While I'm the kinda guy who always appreciates a little, uh, _rebellion_," the Joker carries on; ignoring Roland's smothered screams of pain. Brant, Tavish and Cotton back down and sit on the ground again. I can hear both Cotton's and Tavish's sobs being choked on by the tape. Brant is shaking like crazy, and breathing as heavily as I am.

"Now is. Not. The _time_," the Joker infers darkly, a knife appearing in his hand faster than you can say _brandish._ Oddly, the Joker doesn't exactly seem angry. He's not happy, but it's almost like he's a little impressed. My pulse jumps when he places the tip of the blade over Roland's duct taped mouth. Roland's screams turn into suffocated pleas.

"D'ya... Wanna know..."

_Oh Jeezus, no_

"How I got these _scars_?"

_Jeezus, no, no!_

Roland whimpers and tries to wriggle out of the clown's grasp, but the Joker just yanks harder on his hair, earning a strangled yell.

"Hey," the Joker chides, tapping the knife on the duct tape, "Don't be rude... Now, where were- Ah, yeah, the scars. How I got 'em. Kind of a funny story. I think you'll like it, doc-_cuh," _his perverse, jaunty voice causes my throat to clench, and though I wish to close them, my eyes stare, compelled, through the eye holes of my mask.

"So, when I was a young'in, I was what so-ci-ety has, ah, _deemed... _a _bully_. I'm sure if you asked a shrink-_kuh_ he would tell ya I was sim-puh-ly taking out my frustrations on other children because of, uh, _stuff_ happpenin' back home. But, but that's beside the point-_tuh_," he gives Roland a little, baiting shake by his hair as he prattles on, "Anyways- tell me next time when I get off topic, will ya?- I had this_ favourite_ kid to torment. In fact, you kinda, uh, _remind_ me of him," the clown's gaze becomes scrutinizing as his eyes trail over Roland's tear and blood smeared face.

_Oh god, oh Jeezus he's gonna bleed out, he's gonna die..._

"Yanno, because he had that _unfortunate_ hero complex, like yourself," the Joker says ironically, smiling tauntingly, "Always opening doors and pulling out chairs for girls-_zuh_. And he, h-he never hit back!" he stutters through laughter, "I'd be wailing on the little brat and he'd never, ever, fight back! The perfect little, eh, _punching bag, _hm?," he wrenches at Roland's hair for emphasis, "One day, I come at him with a piece of _guh-lass_ and, ah, _slash _him across the _face_- right here," he cuts a thin line from Roland's chin, up his cheek to his left eye brow. Roland can only moan in pain now.

"Left quite the _scar._ And his daddy, a big shot car dealership owner did not like-_kuh_ the little scar on his golden boy. Not. At_. All,"_ the Joker hisses, bringing the knife back down to the duct tape, "One night, I'm walkin home when I'm _pulled _into a, uh, an alleyway and shoved against a wall. And lookie who it is-wanna make a guess-_sah?_" the tip of the blade begins slowly digging into the tape. Roland shakes his head weakly and Tavish's and Cottons protests become louder.

"Why, it's good 'ol Daddy Golden Boy ah'course! With a shiny... _Sharp-pah_... piece of _glass_ in his hand. He, uh, he calls me sev-er-al... _Unsavoury _things and, and I can't, can't _help it_! I _smile_, "he does just that, baring his teeth maliciously, "Old man's gotta fight little Golden Boy's battles? It was just too _good!_ So, heh, so Old Man- _Papa Bear_- says real low, in an intimidating voice '_You scarred mah boy_,'" the Joker imitates in a deep, almost southern accent.

"'_Dontcha think it's only fair you should be a little scarred too_?' Now, of course I hadda smart-allecky response, and the _smile_ stays on my face-_sah_," the blade breaks into the tape, "_Do your worst, sir. See if you can top you're son's. 'Sides, got enough scars from my old lady to even care if I get s'more'_ I tell him, showing him the, ah,_ collection_ on my stomach. I was really asking for it, wasn't I?" he asks Roland, his voice a snarl, "Huh? Wasn't I," he shakes him roughly, "Well, Papa Bear ah-greed, 'cos, he, ah, he pushed the piece of glass into my mouth, _like so_," the blade moves through the duct tape, until its deep inside his mouth, judging by Roland's choking sounds.

"' _Then let's do something a lil more noticeable, boy_,' Old Man says, and the glass_-suh_ begins cutting into the corner of my, eh, _mouth_. '_Why not make that pretty little smile on your face more permanent? It is you're best feature, son'_. Then he pulls the knife _up_," the knife drags agonizingly, slowly, curling up through the duct tape and past, all the way to Roland's cheekbone. Roland's gurgles clash with our smothered screams. We shake our heads frantically, pulling at our bound hands. But the Joker continues anyways, because we are not important, only this, only these _lies _are important.

_Lies, lies, liar, liar, lies, lies, lies, liar, LIES, LIAR..._

I realize a moment later I'm screaming these words rather than thinking them. You can't understand what I'm saying because of the tape, but if you listened carefully, you could piece the muffled words together.

The Joker seems to because he looks up abruptly, meeting my stare for the briefest moment before flicking his wrist, slicing up the other side of Roland's face.

"After he was done," the Joker continues his tale, "The old man stitched me up himself. How _sweet-uh_ is that? So, to repay him I burned his _precious _little car dealership to the ground... With his pretty wife and Golden Boy _inside_," he sneers, and I think Cotton begins to gag.

"He, uh, he taught me somethin' useful that day. Ev-er-y action has a, um, _reaction_," he tells Roland with a sick kind of joviality, laughing as the blood leaks out of the tape.

Roland's whimper's and garbles turn soft and less insistent, and he stops writhing on the ground. The Joker lets go of his hair and his head drops uselessly to the ground with a soft _thump. _ Roland's head lolls to one side, so his face is turned to us. What we can see of his cheeks are ruined; two limp, lacerated pieces of hanging flesh. He makes one last garbled sound, something like a prayer or plea, then his eyes grow dull. He's still, apart from the blood running down his mouth and chin, down his neck to the ground.

God, there's so much blood.

_Oh my god_

Just-_ God_.

If I wasn't afraid I would choke, I would puke. I settle for tears. Brant sobs are close to my ears, and Tavish's hysterics aren't much farther away. I close my eyes and wish myself away.

"Clean this up-_pah_. Get rid of the body," distantly I hear the Joker order his men about tersely. There's the shuffling of movement, and soft mumbles. I curl my chin down against my collarbones and try to block out the sounds; the squishy, wet sounds of men walking through blood, the creak of bones and wasted flesh as they lift Roland's lifeless, still dripping body off the ground. They drag him- it- away; I can hear the scrape of his dangling, useless legs against the ground. Footsteps come toward us and I squeeze my eyes shut even harder. My whole body is trembling and quaking and it's even harder to breathe now. Someone stops in front of us hostages; whoever it is seems to listen to our sobs and whimpers for a moment.

"Yanno, the funny thing about, uh, _rebellion is..._ It's, ah, high-_ah_-ly contagious-_suh_, hm?" the Joker chuckles a little, and my eyes snap open. He's crouched in front of Brant and Cotton, smiling wickedly at them. They recoil from him, shrinking back against the wall.

"Looks like you _three,_" he zigzags a leather clad finger over Cotton, Tavish and Brant, "Gave into _peer per-reh-sure_," he takes a hold of Cotton's mask and _good naturedly _pulls it back, then lets it go, allowing it to smack painfully back against the doctor's face. Cotton flinches violently, making a low keening sound.

"_Sheep, sheep, sheep,_" the Joker mumbles under his breath, shaking his head and then standing and side-stepping toward where Engel sits.

"But you! Oh, you, you were a _good boy_ and, uh, staid put! You deserve a gold-_duh_ star!" the Joker exclaims joyously, prodding Engel's mask on the forehead none too gently. He swivels and his eyes fall on me.

_Oh Jeezus Chrast, shit, shit, shiiiit_

"And so do you," he says, his tone suddenly gravelly, like there's stones caught in his throat, "You two dah-serve the hostage of the year-_ruh_, ah, award," he laves his lips, considering me closely. I'm not sure if he can tell-because of the mask- but I stare right back. He's still holding a knife- his switchblade. The blood on it is drying as we watch one another.

"Hmmm, boys?" the Joker calls distractedly to his men, who are working on getting the blood cleaned up, via mops. They look up instantly, alert and ready for anything.

"I think-_kuh_ our, ah, _guests_ need to have a little alone time-"

_What?_

_No!_

"- to think about what. They. Have. _Done_," he gestures to his boys, and four come forward.

"Rodge, take Red over to that corner, over there," he orders, and Rodge smiles at Tavish, hauling her up by the collar of her ill-fitting jacket. She squeals but doesn't try to fight him.

"Stretch, the good doc-_cuh_, over there," he points to a small alcove. A particularly tall goon yanks Cotton to his feet and tows him away.

"Cranke-" the Joker simply points at Engel and then to another corner of the floor. I don't watch as they lug the reporter away from Brant and me.

_Brant_

Jeezus, don't hurt him-

"Goliath, take pip-_uh _squeak here over by the windows so you can, uh, also keep an eye-_ah_ on the harbour, m'kay?" I whine low in my throat when Goliath pulls on Brant. Brant keeps a good grip on my arm, his eyes through the mask pleading. All I can do is stare back.

_Please don't hurt him, please, please..._

Goliath yanks him away from me, and he begins hollering and twisting around. I yelp when Goliath throws Brant to the ground and kicks him savagely in the stomach. I tighten my muscles, ready to get up and kick some fucking ass, when a pair of purple legs blocks my view of Brant. I take a sharp intake of air through my nose, and crane my head up. The Joker looms over me, blocking out the increasingly darkening sky. I cringe and whimper quietly. His mouth quirks into a smile, and he lowers himself towards me, propping his elbow on one purple-clad knee.

"_Green Eyes_," he sings quietly, fondly. I muster up a weak glare and he giggles a little, before arresting my forearms in his grasp. I gasp as he pulls me up, the air rushing out of my nose in surprise. I wobble on unsteady legs, and nearly fall into the mad clown, while dots cloud my vision. Oh, _ugh_, I got up too quick.

_Head rush_

"I've got this one," he says, but not to me. To Maul, it seems. Maul nods, eyeing me sceptically. The Joker takes my bound wrists and begins dragging me to the door. I stumble behind him, resisting weakly. Behind me I hear Brant protest, followed by the sound of fist-to-face contact. I moan in response and simply allow the Joker to tug me along. He stops in front of the door, and looks over his shoulder at his men.

"Get 'em ready with the, _ah_, props in half an hour, gettit?"

The men mumble their consent from their different posts. The Joker, satisfied, resumes to pulling me through the door. He switches his grip on me; one hand holds my left elbow. As we jog up the stairs, I can't help but hope he'll take this infernal mask off me. It's difficult to breathe with it on and plus it's hot in here. I greatly dislike when my face is sweaty. It causes me to break ou-

_Not the time_

We go up a couple flights of stairs, I'm too lazy to count how many. The baggy jeans nearly fall of me a couple times as we go along. The sun finally disappears, stretching out our shadows across the steps eerily.

Finally, we get to what seems to be the very top of the Prewitt building. He kicks open the door, pulling me inside with him. He heaves me a little ways into the floor, then simply let's go, making me topple to the ground on my knees. I stop the fall with my taped hands, a muffled hiss escaping when the hard floor comes in contact with my cut up palm. I fall back onto my butt, my legs bent awkwardly in front of me. I stare at the ground; it's preferred to my captor, it really is.

Then, I hear a growl.

_... Fuck_

I don't especially like dogs.

Remember when I mentioned that my Uncle used to call me Bunny?

Yeah, that's because my old neighbour used to have this dog; half greyhound, half mastiff. Fast as hell and mean to boot. The evil demon hated me, for a reason that even now I don't know.

One day when I was nine, the dog- I think his name was Fenrir (_figures_)- got out of his backyard. I just happened to be playing in the front yard with some worms when he came charging at me. Naturally , I hauled ass to avoid getting ripped to shreds by the demon dog. It was actually that day that I realized I was good at running, and the week after I looked into joining the track team, but that's beside the point. Point is, my Uncle was the one who pulled the devil dog off me; he had bit into my ankle and taken me down. He didn't bite me again, he just stood over me, growling like the evil incarnate he was. My Uncle came rushing over and kicked the dog off me. The entire time I was too stunned to do anything, let alone register that the dog took a big whopping bite out of my ankle. It scarred too. My Uncle took me to the hospital, and to keep me calm he joked around that I was like the mechanical rabbit in a dog race; once Fenrir saw me going, he just couldn't resist the chase.

The nickname Bunny just seemed to stick.

So, I'll admit, I'm a little bitter towards dogs in general. Besides, I'm more of a hamster person. I had about four growing up, all named Fatboy.

The three Rottweiler's muscle's tense as they snarl at me, and I flatten myself to the ground; I read somewhere that showing submission is like good or whatever when dealing with crazy, nasty mean animals.

Either that or play dead, which I'm all for if it means I won't get chewed on again.

From a little ways away, the Joker whistles loud and clear, and the dogs stop their growling and instead get dopey looks of utter love and admiration on their slobbery faces as they trot to their _master_.

"Not a dog person then, Rumy?" I look over my shoulder at the clown, then back to the ground again. I criss-cross my legs over each other and rest my hands in my lap. During the jog up the stairs the hood of my plaid jacket had come off, so my hair now makes a curtain around my masked face. I seize up when I hear footfalls coming my way. My head snaps up when the Joker sits in front of me with a _thump_ and crosses his legs like mine. He puts his elbows on one knee and rests his face on his hands. Our eyes connect, and he grins fiendishly at me. I blink, and then look away anxiously. The stars are starting to peek out, competing with the cities lights. One side of the floor's window's give us a view of the city, the other's the Harbour. I look back at the madman when he scoots closer to me. I flinch away when his hand reaches for my face. He chides me with a click of his tongue, then pulls the mask off my face. I blink a couple times, my eyes getting used to no longer having to look through eyeholes. A leather clad hand traces over the contours of my face until it reaches my duct taped mouth.

"This might sting a lil'," the Joker pretends to wince, then he rips the tape off my mouth. I yell out, 'cause it does indeed sting. I flex my jaw carefully, and lick along the inside of my mouth to expel the cottony dryness of it.

"Still no, ah, _gratitude_, Green Eyes?" he sighs, squinting one eye at me. I look at him, a little dazed. Jeez, what's with this guy? He expects me to _thank_ him, of all things? Really, what I should be doing is spitting in his face and cursing him out. But alas, my hands are still rather useless so if he decides to react violently, I'd be helpless.

"Thanks," I mutter softly, looking away from his red, black and white smudged face. He makes a contented noise in his throat, but says nothing else. I can feel him studying me. It gives me the heebie-jeebies, to say the least.

I can't stand the silence and, besides, something's bothering me, and I hafta clear it up.

I clear my dry throat, then ask, "What was with the story?"

"Hmm?" he licks his lips lazily, cocking his head to one side.

"Well, the last, er, scar story you told was a lot..." what's the right word here?... "Different?"

"Wassit?" he asks with a mocking smirk, but I see the interest in his twin tunnels for eyes.

"Um, well, yeah. It just seems like... Like the one you told-" I can't say her name, and he can tell because his smirk lengthens, showing me his off-colour teeth- "The one about the wife, it seems like you were going for... Sympathy, almost," I wince, afraid of his reaction. His eyebrows rise.

"_That's_ what you got-_uh_ from my story? Sym-pa-thy?" I can't quite distinguish his tone. It's odd; it borders on disgust but at the same time it's enquiring.

"Well, yeah. Loving your wife, she loving you. Gambling issues- any type of addiction earns instant pathos- Sharks, scars, scars, scars," Why am I babbling?- "Ripping you're face apart because you want to make her _smile?_ Yeah, you got pity for that, even after you threw her-" I just can't say her name, not to him- "Out the window, and got everybody _shot_, the guests at the fundraiser all likely still felt sorry for you."

"What's the question again?" the Joker inquires almost irritably.

"Well, I want to know why. Why bother making those people feel anything for you besides hate? Do you simply want to mind-fuck with everyone? And what about with Roland," I swallow bile, the image of Roland's lake of blood forever vividly in my eidetic memory, "Why did you make your story so hateful?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"Bullying? The fuck?" Now I'm getting irritable, "Why the fuck did you make those people hate you even more? In that story you deserved what you got-"

"Oh did I now? That's little _spiteful_ of ya," he sneers condescendingly.

"Theoretically," I add with disdain, "We both know that tale was a lie,"

"How d'ya know for sure? Maybe that was the _real_ one, and all the others were fake-_kuh_, hm?" he inclines his head one way a little, running his tongue along his top row of teeth.

Very quietly, I reply, "I don't even think _you_ know how you got them,"

I had thought of that theory a couple nights ago. I don't know why, but I had been lying in my bed, thinking about said evil clown. Mostly his scars. Now, I'm not obsessive or a glutton for punishment, but I'm human so I'm curious. So, I got thinking and I came up with a theory. Maybe I had been wrong that night in the limo. Maybe the Joker wasn't simply just bored and random, maybe he simply doesn't know.

And what he told me in the bus, about how he changes the story depending on who he's telling it to, makes me more confident in this theory.

My words hang in the heavily in the air, and the Joker stares at me unblinkingly. I shuffle back a bit, just to gain some distance, and the dogs, who are by the windowed wall, growl warningly. Finally, he blinks, and chuckles a little, rising to his feet. He looms over me, menace oozing from him without him having to even try.

"_Oh Rumour_," he says like I just said something simply _darling_, "All these _theories_. Had no idea you, uh, thought about me so much_-uh_," he pats my head patronizingly, and I jerk away from him. He moves past me, striding toward one of the used-to-be offices on this floor.

"It's sweet, really, but don't be so pre-_dict-_able," he throws over his shoulder, "Everyone in Gotham is _theorizing _about lil 'ol me," he ducks into the alcove, and continues speaking to me, "Tryin' to figure out_-tah_ why... I. Am. What. I. Am," I hear him shuffling around in the little room, "Why I _do _what I do. And it's _boring_," he heaves out a breath heavily, his voice matching his words.

"Why can't people just accept things, huh? Why do they always-_zuh_ hafta ask _why_? And you, Rumour, I like to think-_kuh_ you're not like the _average masses_. So, don't be a _sheep;_ Stop wondering why, stop trying to find _reason_ behind something that is simply _un-reas-ona-ble_," There's more scuffling noises, until he whoops loudly with triumph. He comes strolling out of the alcove, a huge, self-satisfied smile on his messy face.

I'm confused.

_Why's he-_

Then I see it.

And I almost scream- I want to scream.

But all I can manage is a hopeless moan.

Because in his hand, is the Folder.

**Well, lookie there, a cliffie. Couldn't resist, mate. **

**Okay, so my very first original scar story. I had several ideas bouncing around, like a daughter situation, a brother one and a teacher, but this one was... Less sad. And that's what I was going for. I mean, I noticed that both TDK scar stories are very sympathetic toward the Joker, and while watching it as an audience, you feel bad (or at least do). I mean, it fucks with peoples heads, y'know? Suddenly you start to think that maybe he's misunderstood and he's only a monster because of the horrific scars. Ah, but most would agree that that is simply not the case. Most would say the Joker was the Joker long before the scars. He just uses them to intimidate, mind-fuck, and as an elaborate gimmick for his persona. So, for my scar story I wanted to go a different route. I wanted the hostages to feel even more hatred toward the Joker than before, because now he is no longer 'justified' for his actions, like how he is for the sadder scar stories. **

**Oh, also, the dog name. Kind of a double wammy there. So, initially the connection to the dog's name was going to be Fenrir, the giant wolf, as well as son of Loki, from Norse Myths. Then, I remembered that J.K Rowling is a genius and named her evil werewolf Fenrir Greyback, also having likely been inspired by Norse Myths. So, if you're a Potter fan, that can be the 'figures' Rumour mentions, and if not, the mythical wolfie Fenrir can. Just wanted to clear that up.**

**Anyway, no more ranting for me... Although, speaking of rants, the next few chapters are gonna be filled with Joker rants and Rumy-Jokey disagreements... Basically its gonna be a lot of discussion, but no worries, it won't be boring...**

**Gah, I needa stop talking now. Thank you for reading, drop a review to tell me how I did, m'kay?**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	13. Chapter 13

**Heh, so, I don't have much of an excuse for the late update other than my muse left me for a bit. I blame the Avengers movie(which is amazing by the way, I highly recommend it). Loki distracted me. In case you haven't already figured it out, I have a thing for villains.**

**And my goodness, we've reached the mid-nineties for reviews. I can't thank you all enough. It means so much to me that you are enjoying my silly little tale. I'm worried now that you won't like this chapter. The cliffie last chapter may have given false implications, and I think that this isn't going to be what you expected. This one has a lot dialogue, and not much action, but I fail at action anyways so no worries... I hope**

**Anyways, I hope it won't disappoint. We are beginning to wind down now people, the end is near. Only about four or five chapters left, then an Epilouge.**

**R&R, and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, nope, nope, nopety nope. I'll never own any DC characters. I think I've come to terms with that finally.**

**Onward!**

Chpt. 13 **Falling Papers**

'_A truth that's told with bad intent, Beats all the lies you can invent'~ William Blake_

When I was seven, I went with my Gramma to the nearby Farmer's Market. It was a Sunday so there were tonnes of people there that day. I didn't want to hold Gramma's hand, 'cos I was no baby, even though she told me I should. We had gone into booth with a deep violet-red tent over it, where hand-made necklaces and bracelets were made. I spotted a necklace with a piece of rice inside a small round crystal; if you looked real close, you could see my name written in small, swirly print on the single grain of rice inside the crystal. I had never before seen something with my name on it, not on a keychain or anything like that, so I really wanted this necklace. I turned around to tell Gramma that she needed to get me the necklace, but she was nowhere in sight. I scanned the crowd for her bright strawberry-blond hair (_I still find it amazing that it still hasn't begun to gray_) but I didn't see it. I stood there for a good minute, unable to comprehend that I had just lost Gramma in the crowd. Then, I felt the air knocked out of me, as panic set in. Full. Force. My knees had started to quake and I couldn't breathe. My muscles locked in place and my entire form began to shiver. A huge lump formed in my throat and my stomach caved in on itself. My heart seemed to stop, then kick-start at such a rapid pace that it left my ribs sore. I couldn't think, breathe, talk or move.

That's exactly how I feel now.

Except when I was seven, it turned out Gramma had never actually left the tent. In fact, she was right in front of me, but when I had turned around she disappeared from my view. She had noticed me shaking and gasping for air, and had come over. I don't think I've ever hugged anyone harder. I was so relieved to have found her again that I forgot to ask her to get the rice necklace for me.

~/~

I can't look the Joker in the eye as he sits back in front of me, but the image of that bloody, slashed grin is stuck in my head even as I stare at the silver duct tape around my wrists. I can't even describe how hopeless I feel right now. I mean, the definition of my panic was simple enough, but only because I could compare it to another time. But, I've never in my life felt as hopeless, as defeated, as I do now. I mean, yeah sure I've had a couple times over the last several weeks where I felt pretty down trodden and helpless, but they seem pretty minor now. Even when I was in the Cage and Fleefe had my satchel wasn't as terrible as this.

He was at least the law.

This man is the complete opposite.

I hear papers being shuffled and tears sting the corner of my eyes; not enough to actually have me sobbing but enough to know I'm close to my breaking point.

This day has really fucking sucked.

"Normally," the Joker's voice is knives in my ears, "I'd go into a, uh... _Shpeal_ about the odd-it-ties found in a lady's purse-"

"- It's a satchel," the grumble comes out without my permission.

"- But-_uh_, I see you're, uh, you're not in the _mood_ for useless chit-chat_," _More shuffling. Then, a piece of paper floats into my lap.

It's a sketch of Harvey, smiling and looking younger in an old college sweatshirt.

This is the Harvey that Vee knew, before he was a DA or Gotham's White Knight. Back when he was simply Harvey Wyndell (_Yup, Wyndell_ ) Dent, cheerful and optimistic, still a little scarred from his disownment but ready to move on; Eyes set on Rachel, but side-glanced on Vee.

The Harvey that died as of yesterday.

"Let's just get right... to... the... _point_,"

_Drum roll please..._

"So, we had al-ready _established_ you and Mizz Dawes-_zuh_ are friendly-like, but, _gee_, you know Mistah Dent-_uh_ too?" the Joker's eyes widen in false surprise, "What a _popular_ girl you are. Of course, assuming they know- _knew_ in Rachel's case- you aren't act-u-ally Vianca Maroni?"

I stiffen visibly, and he notices. He smiles slowly.

"Ah, I see. You managed to _fool _them too, huh? What a, ah, _wonderful_ little actress you are, Green Eyes," he licks the row of his upper teeth, "So, knowing that you and Gotham's, ah, _Golden Couple_ aren't actually friendly-like, I'm gonna assume you didn't ac-tu-ally draw these, hm?"

I don't answer.

_Just avert your eyes_

"Ah...Silent treatment... _Very mature_," he teases me, and I can hear the sneer in his voice, "And avoiding eye contact-_tuh_, too? Tut, tut... Is someone being a, uh," I hear him lick his lips, "_Coward_?" he says it slowly, his voice dropping a couple octaves.

And my eyes snap up.

He's sitting in front of me, one leg on the ground and bent to the side at the knee, the other leg's knee is up, his foot outstretched over the leg on the ground. His left arm hangs lazily on his knee, and the right's on the Folder, which sits innocently on the floor beside him. He is the picture of relaxed and it makes my stomach drop further.

How did he get it? Fuck, he must've taken my satchel at some point (_probably when he left after the 'News' footage_), and of course, rifled through it.

Honestly, how screwed am I?

"There's those pretty peepers," he cracks a grin, baring the entire top row of his teeth. I don't scowl or glare; I try to keep my face impassive, but my eyes are heated.

That familiar stomach simmering rage is coming back...

_Watch out, clown boy_

He searches my face a moment, then looks down at the detailed sketch in my lap. He points to it, saying, "My compliments to the artist, it's very good-_duh_... But not very, uh," the Joker looks upward, thinking of the right word, "_Up to date,_" his eyes glance languidly back down to mine, a smug look in their dark depths.

"You jackass," I whisper, catching his meaning. His eyes widen, feigning pain, and he places a hand over his black, un-beating heart.

"Me?"

I _refuse_ to take the bait. Instead I sniff and look to the window, watching the city's skyline.

"Actually, they're all very good," he goes back on subject. Then, pieces of paper float around us.

He must've thrown them up in the air. It's slightly surreal, watching Vee's numerous sketches ghost slowly to the ground. Of course, I recognize (_memorized)_ all of them. By my feet lands a sketch of Peaches; Carlisle and Vinn float haphazardly away from us; Playboy Bruce Wayne whiz's past me; Maroni's cocky smile flashes by my face then lands just to the side of the Joker's right hip.

"I par-_tic_-ularily like this one-_nuh_," the Joker holds up a drawing. It's in colour, with Rachel in a slinky little black dress, her hair loose, and Harvey in a suave but casual grey dress shirt, loose tie and dress pants, sporting a black fedora askew on his golden head. He's standing behind Rachel, holding her in an embrace, smiling down at her. She's craning her head up, laughing coyly up at him. They could be dancing, or maybe just hugging, but the piece is so detailed that just looking at it you know these two love(_ed)_ one another. At the bottom in fancy, curling writing that could only be Vianca's is: _Someday soon._

I love this drawing.

"Actually, most of 'em are of these two,"

He spreads out other drawings in front of us. They are all sketches of Harvey and Rachel: A sketch of Rachel reading on a couch; one of Harvey studying a court case on TV; Rachel scowling; Harvey sleeping; Rachel looking up as it begins to rain; Harvey shaking someone's hand. Some are just basic sketches; others are in full, startling detail. The Joker drops the one of Harvey and Rachel to grab another; my hands itch to scoop up the drawing and hold it to my chest. Never let it go.

"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" the Joker says almost wistfully, staring at a picture before turning it so I can see; it's one where Rachel is sitting by a window, looking out with a slightly dreamy look on her face. Her face is smooth and content. She's at ease and happy and beautiful and...

Dead.

"Yes," I try for monotone but it sounds just as bitter and angry as I feel. The Joker stares at me, his eyes like an owl, then he quirks his mouth, and licks his lips. His grip tightens on the paper, watching me carefully the whole time, then with one hand proceeds to crumple the sketch up into a ball. His other hand goes into his pockets-his eyes remain on mine- and he shuffles around in them before pulling out a lighter. He clicks it and a flame, flickering and ethereal, sprouts out. He brings the flame to the crumpled ball, and the flames begin crawling towards it. The flames catch onto the paper, and the Joker drops the ball to the ground as the fire begins to eat at it. The ball burns between us, the light of the flame creating shadows around us, and we both gaze at it, me in wonder, and him- I'm not too sure.

Of course, the symbolism doesn't escape me.

"Why'd you kill her?" I say just above a whisper, my eyes leaving the flaming picture only to meet the equally flaming gaze of the mad man. He doesn't answer, just stares at me, a ghost of a smirk playing at one corner of his mouth. The only sound is the crackling of the burning once-was Rachel Dawes-

"_Why'd you hafta kill her_?" I say louder, my voice hitching, "To prove a point? What the fuck were you trying to accomplish?" My teeth are bared and the fire in my stomach runs up through my veins.

And he still says nothing. But the little smile widens, maybe just a little. Or am I imagining it?

"What was your big, thought provoking point? You're such a chauvinistic bastard! All you're preaching about liberating people. Bull-fucking-shit!" I'm on a roll, "What, you thought maybe if you killed Rachel that would just be one step closer is breaking Gotham? Or maybe Batman, since you're so obsessed with him. Or maybe, maybe you just wanted to destroy one person? Harvey?" I'm pretty sure that was meant to be rhetorical.

Tears nip at my eyes all the stronger, and I realize I'm leaning toward the Joker, practically barking in his face. He just looks at me patiently, like he's waiting for me to end my tantrum. The crumpled ball's flames begin to die as the paper blackens and caves in on itself.

"Why'd you hafta kill her?" I repeat, softer now, sorrow settling in with the fire in me, "To completely destroy Harvey? Well good-for-fucking-you, you did it. I saw him today; the Harvey I knew-"

"_Knew_?" the Joker finally says, interrupting me. His brows are up in a mix of disbelief and antipathy.

"You didn't _know_ him," he tells me, not quite cruelly but not kindly either; matter-a-fact, "And he _certainly_ didn't-_tah_ know _you,_"

_What? _

_No, he's-_

"What do you know?" I hiss, "You're wrong. You know n-"

"More than you think-_kuh_," he interrupts me again, "And I'm not, ah, _wrong_. I'm not-_tuh_," he licks the inside of his cheek, rolling his tongue along his left scar.

"Bullshit," I retort, maybe a little childishly. He sighs, and shifts positions; he gets up on both knees and leans forward, planting both palms on the ground by my hips, inclining his face toward mine.

I refuse to back away, although Jeezus knows I want to.

"No, see, it isn't," the Joker returns archly, smiling sickeningly; a smile that practically sings _I-know-something-you-don't-know_, "Cos', if you, heh, if you think-_kuh_ about it," he sounds oddly giddy, "He couldn't have known you, 'cause, well, 'cause you're _not _Vianca," he says quieter, like he's telling a secret, his eyes ablaze.

I blink once. Twice.

_What..._

"He knew-" I try, pitifully. Grasping straws.

"-_Vianca Maroni_," the mad clown finishes for me complacently, bringing his face even closer. The paint is smudged now, but I'm used to it. God, I'm fucking used to it, how messed up is that?

He laughs quietly at my expression.

"He... H-he cared-" I choke, those nipping, stinging tears gathering up.

"-About Vi-an-ca Mah-ro-ni," he relays slowly, mocking me with his tilting, erratic, fucking clowny voice.

_Shut up..._

"Not... You," he intones, like he wants to make _sure_ I heard him, that I understand.

_Shut up..._

"Do you really think," He goes on, cocking his head, "that if you weren't playing dress up-_uh_ he'd give you_ the time of day_? Hm? No, Rumour," God, he's so fucking condescending, "He would've walked _right by you_, without so much of a _glance-suh_. You. Are. Ah-lone here, Green Eyes. He didn't care about you," he retracts from me briefly and snatches the sketch of Harvey shaking someone's hand.

_Shut up, shut the fuck up_

"All he saw was Vianca ev-er-y time _he looked at you_," he holds the picture up to my face, shaking it aggressively, as my tears pool over, "He _never_ saw past the contacts-_suh_ or the eyeliner on your chin," the Joker prods my chin and I jerk away, "How does it feel-_lah,_ to know... that _no one._ In. This. City. Wants. You..." he looks at me curiously, "That all they _ever_ wanted was Vi-an-ca?"

_-_

"Shut up!" I choke out, voice strangled, "Shut up, you're wrong! There were others-"

_Felicia the hair dresser, English-Man Alfred, The College Vampires, Brant..._

"Who, _what_? Wanted you're _money_? You're _body_? Wanted your _aliases_, like, uh, like Marjorie Carmens?" he sneers, pulling out my fake ID. He throws it across the room and leers in my face.

_When the fuck did he get that?_

"You don't even _exist _for the people here," the Joker asserts cruelly, fisting the picture of Harvey violently. I wilt under his pitiless gaze.

_Shut up, please, shut up, pl-_

"Please, stop, I've heard enough," I manage weakly, allowing hot, rapid tears to slip down my dirty face.

"Oh _no_, you haven't," he argues, his tone suddenly less brutal, "No, you need to hear this," he licks his puffy, savaged mouth, "The last several weeks you haven't-_uh_ been able to be, ah, be _you_ with _anyone_ here in Gotham... Except for one person," he bends to me, his damp mouth brushing my ear, and he whispers, "_Wanna guess who_?"

"Wha- No..." I whisper, as I begin to understand the meaning of his words. I feel him smile and he nuzzles my ear slightly. I shudder hard.

"Yes, Rumy dearest," his voice drips into my ear like hot oil, "_Me_," he chuckles lightly, circling his hands closer to me, "I. Am. The. _Only_. Person in this entire city that, ehm, that has gotten the _slightest _glimpse-_sah_ at the _real, _uh, you," his hands slide on the ground until the tips of his fingers brush my hips. I shuffle a little ways away but he follows my movements.

"I am the _only_ one that has seen past the, uh, _facade_ and have _preferred-duh_ what is there," the clown snaps his head to the other side of my face to murmur into the other ear, "I'm the only one who prefers your eyes _gah-reen_ rather than blue," he palms my hips when I try to back away again, "You need to, ah... stop-_puh_ _pretending_ that people like _Har_-vey Dent-_uh_ and Rachel Dawes-_zuh_ would _ever_ accept you," his tone is harsher again, mocking again, "I'm not actually sure if you're, ah, in _denia_l over it," he laughs a little, but it's mirthless, "Or you're _delusional_,"

"Why," I rasp, choking on the lump in my throat, "Why are you telling me this?"

He pulls away to look me in the face, then slides me closer to him by my hips. On his knees the Joker still towers over me, making me feel so small and useless that I cry even harder.

"You dah-serve to hear it," he tells me loftily, "And if not from me, who? I am the only person you have in this whole-_luh _city, Rumour darling," he grins sanctimoniously, squeezing my hips with faux affection.

A head ache begins forming in my sinuses from the tears, which are still falling by the way. Oh god, Jeezus. It's all true. What he's saying? It's all so fucking true. Any, y'know, I might've figured all this out by myself eventually, that Harvey didn't love me, just Vee. Just the fact that he, that fucking clown, had to tell me, give me a fucking epiphany, just is salt in the wound.

It doesn't help that he's thoroughly enjoying telling me the awful truth.

"You can't actually care," my voice sounds chafed, "You ca-" He interrupts me with an exasperated sigh and yanks himself away from me and to his feet.

"Over-think it all you want," he says offhandedly, ripping apart the picture of Harvey I had forgotten he was holding, "But you'll see, I'm right," he whips out the lighter again and burns the edges of one of the halves of paper, "You'll all see," the Joker licks his lips almost frantically, his voice developing a wild edge, "You'll all see how _right_ I am," he looks to the Gotham skyline. He stares out at the city, a greedy expression on his ruined face. I don't know if it was on purpose or not, but he drops the two halves of the paper.

They sail down, and land in front of me.

The picture is ripped perfectly in half, one half of Harvey is flawless, and the other is crinkled and burned on the edges. This earns a choked sob from me, remembering Harvey's monstrous face from earlier today.

I don't care if he didn't know me or I him. He doesn't deserve this-that... All of it.

My sob must've attracted the Joker's attention back to me, because he crouches down, and with a finger under my chin, gently tips my tear-soaked face up.

"Tears don't suit you Green Eyes," he murmurs in a tone that might've meant to be comforting but to me it sounds patronizing.

"Fuck you!" I shout before I can think through my actions.

_Shit_

He pulls a face, and tsks amusedly.

"Hmm..." he considers me, taking his chin in a hand, "I can see you need a, uh, little time to _yourself_," his hand is back in his pocket," That's fine, you can stay here," he pulls out... Oh god, a roll of duct-tape.

"Here, let's just-_uh_ put, uh, put this back on," I shake my head frantically, cursing and protesting while trying to scuttle away. He latches onto my jaw, his fingers digging in relentlessly, and, _ow, _it hurts like a sonovabitch. He reels my face back and with the other hand he slaps a piece of duct-tape over my mouth. The entire time he wasn't angry; he was chuckling and despite the severity of his movements, his manner was lazy. Ever the contradiction, I suppose.

"And this," still gripping my jaw painfully, he snatches the Pervy mask. I yell at him from behind the tape, trying to pull away. He purses his mangled lips chidingly, and wrestles to get the mask back on.

The psychopathic clown wins.

"_There,_" the Joker sighs contentedly, settling my mask in place, "I'll be back-_kuh_ for you _later_, after you're little... You're little _time out._" he smiles lopsidedly, pulling my hood back on.

"FUMM- RAHH-FFF!" I screech angrily under the tape and mask.

Translation: _Fuck right off_

"Hmm,what's that?" he cocks his head and puts a hand to his ear, like he's trying to hear me better, "You'll stay here? Keep-_uh_ guard? Good thinking. I needa hand out some, ah, _prop_s to the other guests-_sah_ anyhow,"

_What the hell does he mean by props, anyways?_

"DDDF-FFAA-EFFE-MFF!" I howl, my tears officially ending 'cos I'm really fucking pissed.

Oh, and translation: _Don't you fuckin' leave me!_

"Now, you behave, or the little _princies _may hafta... Well, you have an imagination right? They're mob dogs, so just think-_kuh_ of the, the, uh, _horrible_ things they'll do to you if you try to get away," he winks and cuffs my- _well, I suppose the mask's- _cheek harshly.

_Shit... I forgot about the demon dogs_

"Don't miss me too terribly," he pouts, then leans and playfully kisses my mask on its orange lips. I make a disgruntled noise and curl away. He laughs blithely, and stands, calling the dogs over to stand just a little closer.

"Ta-ta," he calls over his hunched shoulder, waving a hand, as he walks through the door.

"MFF-MM-RFFF!"

Translation: ... Let's just say it was rated R.

~/~

I've named the dogs.

One is named Killer.

Another is Bully.

And the last is Chomp.

They all look the same so I mix up who's who.

And, yeah, the names aren't too original, but this is coming from the girl who named every single childhood hamster Fat-Boy. Plus, their names work for them. And, c'mon, Chomp is an adorable name.

Anyways, even though I named them, the trio still don't seem to like me very much. Ever since the clown left, I've been trying to pull my wrists apart to loosen the tape. Every time I make a really violent tug, they growl at me and step closer. These dogs are very well trained.

Where the hell did the Joker get them?

And I still wanna know what these _props_ are. Not that I want any myself. They probably aren't fun.

And, how much did the Joker read and/or look at in the Folder. If he read the steps... I dunno, would I be screwed? Now that I've calmed down, I can rationalize. I mean, he would have leverage if he read it, but why would he want to blackmail me? I'm quite literally a no one. Oh, he'll probably just fuck around with it and me for shits and giggles, the sick bastard.

Oh, fuck, I'm kidding myself, I'm still royally screwed.

Oh gah! What the fuck am I gonna do?

... I lied about calming down, I'm still a little panicky right now...

And when I panic my thoughts are incredibly scattered-

Are those boats?

Ferries?

I'm close enough to the one window-wall-thing to be able to see the Harbour, and docked there are what look like two Ferries.

I don't much like boats.

Cleithrophobia, remember?

From what I can see, people seem to be filing into the Ferries.

Well, at least the people of Gotham took the Joker's threat seriously.

Myeh, what time is it?

Is my _time-out _(_jackass)_ over yet?

I feel like I've been here forever.

... Oh, lookie.

The crumpled piece of paper has finally stopped smoking.

It stopped actually flaming awhile ago, but it still smoked rather persistently.

Now it's just a pathetic pile of ashes.

Have I ever mentioned the Joker is a mean old sonovabitch?

... Ugh...

...

... But shit, he was right.

I was stupid to get attached to Rachel and Harvey. Well, Harvey more so than Rachel, but still. I was- I still am- upset when I found out she was dead. And, of course, Harvey's condition is an even bigger blow.

But you have to understand.

I know Vianca pretty well at this point. In fact, I know her now more than I ever knew her before.

Vianca, generally, isn't the most... Likable person, really.

Yeah, guys think she's gorgeous... Until she totally rebukes them, generally pretty cruelly.

And she never had any patience for most girls' petty ways. So, she's never had many friends. Yes, both her parents loved her dearly before they died, but her mother was a woman who liked to have fun, so Vee was stuck with the Nanny; a lovely woman that I've actually met. I don't know her full name since Vee always called her Nana-Mimi. Nana-Mimi practically raised Vee, and loved her dearly as well. I like Nana-Mimi, she reminds me a little of Gramma.

Anyways, Vee never really had any friends growing up, apart from Rachel, who was five years older than her. Then she met Harvey. Before we met, Harvey, Rachel and Nana-Mimi were the only people who truly got Vee.

And _that_ was- is- why I got so attached to Harvey and Rachel. We have something in common.

We love (loved in Rachel's case) Vianca Camilla Maroni unconditionally.

Vee isn't an easy person to love. She uses everyone, no matter how much she hates or loves them. And, you can never be sure if she actually cares about you or if you're just a useful pawn.

I'm still not too sure.

But it doesn't matter.

I love Vianca Maroni; so does Nana-Mimi, and Harvey and so did Rachel. We all would do anything for her, and I have. So has Harvey. Rachel would've and Nana-Mimi still would.

I am bound to these people through our mutual love and devotion for this one woman.

And you know what?

I think I'm glad I got attached. I am grateful that Vee has- had? - other people in her life (besides me) that cared about her irrevocably. She deserves it. A lot of people in her life hated and still hate her.

But we don't, or did, or whatever.

Because it doesn't matter how awful Vee could be sometimes. When she isn't being a manipulative bitch, she's the most interesting, thoughtful, most wonderful person to have around and sometimes I can't even believe she wants me as her friend.

Yeah, yeah, it sounds like I have a girl crush, and yeah, it's likely that I do. But that's just the kind of person Vee is. If she's good to you, she makes your life somehow more exciting and meaningful. She's the type of person that makes you try new things and pushes you're boundaries; for the better or worse.

Vee isn't a good person.

Nor is she bad.

She is in-between.

Not black, or white.

She is gray, and beautiful and smart and crafty.

She sometimes means the world to me and sometimes she ruins my life.

And I love her more than I think I've ever loved anyone.

That is why I allowed myself to love Harvey. Because he loves her too.

And I'll miss Harvey, and so will Vee because he was her first true love.

And I'll cry with her when I tell her about Rachel, and about Harvey.

And she'll hate the man who ruined her loved ones, and I will fuel that hate.

But do I feel it?

I'm not exactly feeling warm fuzzies for the man, but I'm not sure I'm capable of truly hating a person. It's not that I'm too good of a person to hate, it's just that hating a person is exhausting and time consuming, and I have bigger issues than hating an out-of-his-mind clown.

So, no, I don't believe I hate the Joker.

But that doesn't mean that all he's done is forgivable.

No, I will be relieved when this over, when I'm out of this building (please God let me get out), out of this city. I'll be relieved to have to never see the paint coated face of the mad terrorist again.

And the Ferries fill up, every last person on board.

And the door opens; the dogs whine and thankfully turn their attention from me.

And my jolly, purple and green captor waltzes in.

And my palms begin to sweat, because this night(_mare_) isn't over, and I'm still at the mercy of a homicidal maniac.

But he walks past me, to the window's that over-look the Ferries.

The Ferries, from what I can see, make it half way through the Harbour, then the lights inside flicker.

The Joker raises what looks like a cell phone to his mouth, his back still facing me, and turns it on. The ominous sound of an empty line bursts from it, and he punches in a number. He waits, bouncing on the balls of his feet until he connects with another line. He pulls out a bundle of cue cards from his pocket, and hunches a shoulder so he can cradle the phone and keep it in place. The Ferries flicker more, then the Joker jumps a little (out of excitement, I'm sure), when I assume he connects to the other line. He clears his throat, then begins.

"_Tonight, you're are all going to be part of a social experiment..."_

**Yeah, I know, another cliffie. They are rather addicting, really. But, if I had continued it would've been too long. **

**So, I hope this wasn't too boring or a disappointment. And I hope Rumour's reasoning for her attachment to Rachel and Harvey, and how she feels about the Joker, makes sense. Oh, and by the way, the **_**props**_** the goons and the Joker keep talking about are the guns they give the hostages.**

**Oh, and, um, I was just wondering... Would anyone like to make some fanart for 'Rumour'? I've seen some for other Joker fics, and I think its really cool. Obviously you don't have to but if you did I'd be so grateful and happy that I'd implode. 'Cos, you know, **_**ex**_**ploding is for chumps. **

**Anywhoodles, tell me what you thought, and maybe what you think is going to happen next.**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	14. Chapter 14

**This is probably the hardest time I've had with a chapter, ever. I re-wrote it so many times, thinking it was good enough, then I'd read it over again and hate it. So I'd change it again. Then I would start changing little things, but they didn't make sense with the rest so I started changing bigger things. *Sigh* a vicious cycle doesn't even begin to describe my time with this chapter.**

**Anywhoodles, enough griping and excuses. Ima just warn you right away, this one ends with a cliffie. I know my last few chapters have ended the same way, but I swear, this one is probably the last one this story will have. In fact, after this one there are only about two, maybe three, more chapters then an Epilogue.**

**Anyway, I want to thank all my readers, alerters, favortiters and reviewers. You all are the only thing that got me through this chapter. This one's for you! Oh, and read the end note, please.**

**Disclaimer: I'm running out of funny (likely more annoying than anything) disclaimers, so I'm going to leave you with, if I owned TDK and its characters, I wouldn't share, so you would all hate me. So it's a good thing I own anything but my OC's, huh? **

Chpt. 14 **Barter System**

'_That world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away,' ~ The Lord of the Flies, by William Golding_

"_Tonight, you're are all going to be part of a social experiment..." _

Well...that can't be good.

"Through the magic of _diesel fuel_ and _ammonium nitrate._.."

_That explains the phone call on the bus...Jeezus help them_

"... I'm ready to blow you all _sky high,_" with one hand the Joker makes an elaborate 'exploding' gesture- by clenching a fist then popping out his fingers- and his tone is much too merry and pleased for my taste, "If anyone should attempt to get off the _boat-uh, _you _all_ die,"

Far, far too pleased.

The Joker begins pacing as he speaks, and I can see his reflection in the glass. His dark eyes are glued to the Ferries, the expression in them both expectant and greedy.

"... Each of you has a remote to _blow up_ the other boat-_uh_-"

"Ahmm-muuh-gehmm," I mumble beneath the tape.

Translation: _Oh my god_

"-At midnight I blow you _all _up," he remarks cheerfully, "_If_, how-ev-er-"

_Why is there always an 'if'?_

"- One of you _presses_ the button, I'll. Let. That. Boat. _Live," _he recites the words off the cue cards slowly, drawing out the tension.

Just like any good speech-maker does.

If the guy wasn't a terrorist, he'd make one helluva politician.

... Although the name _Adolf Hitler_ does come to mind...

"_So,_ who's it gonna be?" the Joker asks in an up-beat tone, his pacing becoming bouncier. The dogs shuffle in place, whether it's from anxiety or excitement, I care not to know.

It's eerie how intense his gaze is on the ferries; if he stares any harder they will burst into flam-

Oh, wait...

Never mind.

"Har-vey Dent's-s_uh_ most wanted scumbag collection... Or the sweet, _innocent_ civilians-_suh?"_ is that a trace of irony in his voice?

"_You choooose_..." the Joker sing-songs, waving a hand with flourish.

"... Oh!" he adds, poking the window, making it look like he's actually touching one of the Ferries, "You might want to decide _quickly_," he's going over his lines faster now, "Be-_cause_ the people on the other _boat___may. Not. Be. Quite-_tah_. So. _No-ble_," the Joker finishes bouncily. And with that, he hangs up.

And laughs.

And laughs.

And _laughs._

The sound is ugly and nasal.

Loud and high-pitched,

Cutting and oozing.

It worms its way into my ears- _more like stabs-_ and resides there, smugly, bruising my ear drums with its ringing; shaking at my skull, pinching my sinuses.

It's so awful I can't stand it. And not just because it sounds so horrific, but because of why he's doing it in the first place.

It's disgusting.

Laughing in the faces of those people, who have to make the most difficult, horrendous decision of their lives.

Laughing in the face of Gotham, who will have to deal with whatever the outcome of this little 'social experiment' will be.

How must they be reacting on the Ferries? The civilians, I'm sure, are panicking but trying to keep calm and decide what to do. The '_most wanted scumbag collection_' Ferry, I'm sure, is going crazy. Guards beating back the inmates, trying to keep calm them self. Trying to come to terms with the fact that they will likely die.

There's a word for this.

Chaos.

_Exactly_ what the bastard wants.

The Joker is bent on one knee, clutching himself around the middle as his riotous cackling turns into gasping, wheezy chuckles.

"...Maybe I shoulda let Apple install those cam-er-as," he mutters to himself between giggles.

"Mffrk!" I shout, mostly to get his attention, but also to express how disgusted and angry I am.

Translation (and it's something I've wanted to call him for a _long_ time): _Freak!_

Still doubled over and panting, the Joker tilts his head in my direction, his stringy hair hanging limply around his face. He stares at me, still breathing hard, then smiles slowly. I make a muffled sound in my throat in response, a sound vaguely similar to that throaty yowl thing cats do. He chuckles, straightening and smoothing his hair out of his smeared face, observing me with satisfied expression on his painted face.

He looks oddly ethereal at the moment, what with the Harbour's lights at his back, turning him into shadows. Only his face, blaringly white, is clear in the darkness. The entire visual in startling in its intensity.

_What I wouldn't do for a camera right now..._

Something inside me lurches, and that feeling, that feeling of being compelled, and enthralled and _pulled, _returns with a strength that is frightening. The magnetism of the Joker's pull has me breathless, and it's taking all I have to remain seated. I should want to be as far from him as possible, to be fighting and screaming, trying to get away. But that something about him, that stark intensity and rawness, almost yanks me toward him. I don't move, of course, but with my anger and disgust, something else builds. Something dangerous and potent and alien and so very, very _wrong_. It terrifies me. I struggle to keep it under control. I concentrate on my revulsion instead.

The situation isn't helped when the Joker begins advancing on me, moving with languid steps that are both lazy and predatory. He both saunters and stalks. I've never noticed it before, but the Joker's walk is very distinctive. Not to mention, odd. He hunches his neck into his shoulders, further ruining his posture, and making him seem shorter. But at the same time, the action is almost animal-like. Hunter-like.

_Let's skip the part about who the prey is, okay?_

Also, the steps he takes are kind of lopsided, like he's walking on uneven ground, or he's drunk. But there's an odd grace to it. While his movements are jerky and erratic, like his personality, they are lithe and nimble.

It's weird, but besides the obvious aspects, like his war paint and hair, the Joker doesn't really act like a clown. I mean, he has the laughter down pact, and the morbid sense of humour, but other than that and the physicality's, the Joker isn't clowny-like at all. I mean, what clown has the same virility that he exudes, or the menace? The Joker is mesmerizing and enthralling and-

Fuck my life. I really need to stop getting poetic like this. Now really isn't the time. I shake my head, stopping my inner tirade, and focus on the murderer making his way toward me.

_Just concentrate on disgust, don't think about anything else, don't allow yourself to feel anything else_

When the Joker reaches me, snickering under his breath, I grunt with apprehension and try to shrink away. He simply bends at the waist, and in one jerky movement, scoops me up under my arms, hands on my ribcage, and yanks me to my feet. I squeal with surprise, and wobble into his chest by accident. He laughs (_but of course_), and straightens me out while repeating '_clumsy, clumsy, clumsy'_ under his breath in sing-song. He takes a step back from me, rolling his tongue under his upper lip, and we watch one another; me, still peeved but also nervous as hell; he, contemplative and a smidgen too avid for my liking.

"_Dance with me_," he whispers suddenly, in an uncomfortably husky voice.

_Wait... WHAT?_

"Wuhutt?" I squawk under the tape.

Do I really need to translate?

"Dance with me!" the Joker repeats, giggling madly this time. I try stepping back from him, but he arrests my taped wrists and heaves me back. I collide with his chest, thoroughly knocking the air out of me. Then he jerks my arms up by my wrists, and draws them around his neck. He's so much taller than me that my arms are uncomfortably strained.

Well...

_This is sufficiently awkward_

Here we are, the captor and the captive, embracing in the starlight. Would be total harlequin (_haha) _romance novel material (_pun intended)_, if he wasn't, y'know, a _homicidal clown_, and I wasn't, y'know, _bound and gagged_.

I try tugging free, but already my arms are stretched up to their limit. I can't lift them any higher to get them over his head. I twist around, but the clown just snickers sadistically at my attempts, and eventually I give up and choose to glare hotly at him. I'm forced to have my arms braceleted around the Joker's neck, just like how a girl dances with a boy during a slow song. Yet again I get a flashback of Graham McKinely finally dancing with me at Prom. Looking back, that was pretty awkward too.

The Joker rests his hands at either side of my waist, his body leaving a good amount of space between us, in a mockery of the chaste dancing one would participate in (_suffer through)_ whilst in middle school. His hands, though covered, burn like acid through the thick jacket I have on. Then, the Joker starts swaying back and forth. The already excruciating anxiety I feel rises to a dangerous level. He hums an upbeat, slightly jazzy (reminds me of something by Michael Buble) tune and spins us around. Not really having a choice, I bumble around after him. One hand leaves my waist, and reaches up to wrench the horrid mask off my face.

"_Peek-a-boo_," the Joker hisses, baring his teeth. Since I'm still gagged, all I can do is scowl and roll my eyes. He cackles and returns his hand to my waist, twirling us around. He pulls me just a little closer, and I tense further. His humming softens, and his movements slow. We go back to just swaying. I look at our feet, he looks everywhere else; my face, the windows, the damned dogs. It's just like the rest of him, even his eyes can't stay still.

"So," the Joker's voice breaks the silence, "You seem to be over you're little, ah, _tantrum_. Have you realized they aren't worth-_uh _your tears?" He looks down at me, his black eyes both cruel and challenging. I narrow my own, and make a decision. I've no doubt this man –_monster_- will be able to make me break down again, in fact I'm sure it is inevitable. But, I won't allow it to be because of them. Because of Harvey and Rachel. It disgraces them. I won't let him change my mind in regard to them. Or about anything. I will not accept any epiphany's about myself from him anymore.

I hate to sound cliché, but he doesn't know a thing about me, so his words won't have any affect. I won't let them, not like that again.

So, I don't answer, not that I can with the tape over my mouth. He searches my stubborn and determined expression, then they drop further, and he smiles.

"Oh-ho, whoopsies, forgot about that," he titters, eyeing the tape over my mouth.

No he didn't.

His tongue flicks out to skirt over his bottom lip, and he reaches down to curl his fingers under the end of one side of the tape. He doesn't give me a warning, like he did last time, when he rips off the tape. I cry out, much to my chagrin, but damn, that sonovabitch hurt. I lick my lips quickly to expel some of the dryness. He watches me, waits for a reaction to his words, but I won't give him one. Instead, I turn my head and stare out at the Harbour, watching the lights in the Ferries flicker with pity.

"This is disgusting," I say finally, gesturing at the boats in the Harbour. The Joker's eyes swerve to the window, then back to mine.

"Hehm," he grunts, rolling his head around like he's heard it all before.

"Plus, I doubt it will even work. One boat blowing up the other, I mean," I say pointedly. His brow rises, and he pokes the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

"Yeah?" he says quietly, but there's a definite deadly undertone. The entire time we never stop swaying.

"Uh-huh," I reply vaguely, looking back at the Ferries. In the distance I think I hear helicopters.

"And, uh, _why's_ that-_tah_?"he inquires in a biting, but grudgingly curious tone.

"I don't think people are as bad as you make them out to be," I say softly, but not necessarily timidly. Just safe. Just a little hesitant. I know that my words could affect the clown very negatively, and I've been man-handled enough for the day, thank you.

"Oh, do _explain,_" he drawls condescendingly. My brow knits at his tone, but instead of getting mad (_slightly annoyed is a better word_), I simply explain myself.

"Well, believe it or not, not everyone is like you. People are a lot better than you think they are. How can you condemn these people? You know nothing about them, except that they live in Gotham. Is that really the only reason? I mean, maybe the prisoners deserve to be condemned, I don't know, but what about the civilians? They are hardly corrupted. Their innocent," I relay firmly, my brow creasing stubbornly. He considers my words and scowls, laving at his lips as he looks up at the ceiling.

"You _still_ don't understand," the Joker sighs, then looks back down at me, "Havencha, uh, havencha ever read '_the Lord of the Flies_'?"

"Grade ten English," I nod, wrinkling my nose. I hate that book; it's too depressing and disturbing for my taste.

"That book _proves_ that given the proper environment, tools and _pressure_, anyone can, ah, _snap-puh_," he smacks his lips and gives me an arrogant smirk. I'm silent at this, because, shit, he has a point.

Something inside me falls. I don't know if it's my confidence, my calm or simply my stomach, but something indeed falls inside me.

I mean, think about it. If a bunch of otherwise innocent little boys can go crazy and savage on a tropical utopia, just think what could happen to people in a city like Gotham. Of course, one must keep in mind that novel is fiction... But, my experience is that fiction, sometimes, can tell us a lot more about the world and the people in it than real life ever could.

"Y'see," he goes on at my silence, "Y'see, as a _species _we are, ah, fund-ah-mentally _insane_. Put more than_ two_ of us- _them_," he removes a hand from me to point at the Ferries, "In a room, we- _they_- pick sides-_zuh_,"

He tilts his head down, and lowers his face until he's staring at me from beneath his lashes and continues in a low voice, "Their probably arguing about it... right... now. Testing their, ah, _morals_," the words slides acerbically off his poisonous tongue, "Then, then they start dreaming up _reasons_ to, uh, to _kill-luh_ one another," he pauses a moment then adds, "Well, I suppose gave them a reason, so they have a _head start_," the Joker chuckles a little, "It's like this in any situation. Why do you think-_kuh_ we invented things like, ah, like _politics _and _religion, _hmm?" he licks his lips, staring pointedly.

"Not everyone's like that," I say quietly, thoroughly humbled by his speech. Why is it that he always manages to make me into a complete dumbass with his little speeches?

He barks out a sharp, mirthless laugh, causing me to flinch, and rebuttals, "Oh, _yes they are_. That's _one_ of the many issues-_zuh_ with Gotham. _She's in deee-nial_," he sing-songs, "And people like, uh, like Har-vey Dent-_uh_, Cah-_missioner_ Gordon and even, ah, _the Bat Man..._ aren't... helping," he almost growls, curling his tongue around his bottom eye-tooth. I squint my eyes at him in disbelief. I mean, before he showed up, this city was looking brighter _because _of these three men.

...I mean, I _assume_ the Bat_man_ is indeed male...

"And you are? Helping them, I mean," I scoff, glowering at him. For all the sense he makes sometimes, this man is still a complete fruitloop.

"I," the Joker twirls a hand near my face with flourish, "Am but an _eye opener_, Rumy dear," he grins menacingly, and this close I can see the crevices in the paint where the smile wrinkles are, by his mangled mouth and his smudged eyes.

"An eye-opener?" I echo, fighting the urge to raise my brow.

"Mmhm," his grin widens, and he whirls around again, this time closer to the opposite window-wall.

"Are you sure people want their eyes to be opened?" I question resignedly, knowing I'm not gonna like the answer.

"D'ya think-_kuh_ they getta choice?"

I sigh, "Some people respond better to, um, gentleness rather than force. Maybe if you opened people's eyes a little-"

"A city like-_kuh_ Gotham needs, ah, a little _tough love_. It's the only thing she knows, and I'm willing to give her the kind of attention she _deserves_," the Joker interrupts, speaking feverishly and licking his lips with reverence. I suppress a shudder at the look that is climbing in his eyes.

"Love?" I whisper, not believing his words, not wanting to look into what exactly they mean.

Love? The Joker loving something? This man, no doubt, will have books written about him, will be in several texts. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they made a movie about the events that have happened in Gotham over the last few months. And, in all these things that will undoubtedly be about the Joker, none of them will say he is capable of any empathy or feelings. Especially love. But, how many of them, the authors, screenplay writers, interviewers, specialist, all of those sorts, will ever see the Joker like I'm seeing him now? His eyes ablaze with so many dark, fierce emotions; his face twisted and gleaming in the darkness; his posture tense, relaxed angular and lopsided all at once. They will never see him at the height of his emotions like now. They won't see the hate, contempt, glee and, something, something close to adoration, etched on his face, speaking in his eyes. They will never know.

But I will.

"_She," _he twists us around, breaking me out of my reverie then spreads out an arm over the Gotham sky-line, "Is my lady love,"

"You love Gotham," I realize quietly, then say softly, maybe more to myself than anything, "But you also hate it too, don't you?

The Joker stops swaying, and stares out at the city with a strange, hungry fire in his eyes. He bears his yellowed teeth, his expression shark-like and possessive.

"Gotham is an _ugly _city," he sneers, tightening his grip on me, "Full of _shame, _far beyond _redemption_," with each word he digs his fingers harder into my side. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

"She's a sad. Old. _Whore_," he continues, and my eyes bug out.

The Joker... He just _swore! _I have never heard the clown swear before! I always assumed he had too much class for it, or whatever. I don't think the swearing is a good thing, either. Not with a look like that in his eye, or the way that he is clutching me.

"But she's _beautiful_ when she _cries," _the Joker breathes pensively, and his grip loosens, "I _love _her when she _cries._.. _I only love her when she cries_..." he breaks off wistfully, still staring with frightening intensity at the skyline.

I hate to ruin the moment, but...

"But, aren't you kind of... um, contradicting yourself?" I cringe when the words fall out of my mouth.

"Hmm?" he hums distractedly, the Joker's gaze sliding lazily back to mine.

_Well, either that or the guy is the ultimate oxymoron_

I mean, the guy is a clown who spreads mayhem and screams instead of joy and laughter.

He's officially got the Virgin Mother beat.

"Well, look at your name. _The Joker_. The name hints at things like chaos and laughter, broken rules and fractured plans. I just thought you wanted people to see that order is redundant, to free people from their scheming ways. Why make Gotham cry when you can make it laugh?" I hope that made sense. Sometimes the stuff in my head comes out sounding like drivel. In fact, it happens pretty often.

"How can someone, uh, appre-ci-ate _laughter_ if they haven't _cried _or _suffered_?" he cocks his head to one side, smiling almost playfully. But there is a darkness in the Joker's eyes, more than usual, and it frightens me. I swallow hard, looking away from those eyes that remind me of boiling oil, and tunnels and shadow, and just... Madness.

"So all of..._this_," I incline my head in the direction of the Harbour, "Is about some fucked up life lesson?" I squeak incredulously.

"Oh, no ,no, that's faaaaar too _simple_," he laughs, dragging me closer to him so my front is right against his. He brings his face to mine, so our noses are only a breath apart. I recoil as best I can, but it does hardly a thing.

"See, I am... _engaged," _he smiles at his word choice, "In a battle for the very, ah, _soul _of Gotham city," the Joker whispers, his humid breath grazing my face. His eyes flare, and chills run through me.

"Why do you want Gotham so bad?" I question faintly, my eyes enlarging, my mouth slightly agape. The Joker beams, and nudges my nose with his. My eye twitches.

"Because she is _perfect_ in her ins-an-ity," he exclaims exultantly, "She is _divine_ in all her ug-li-ness," he whirls us around, making me dizzy, "And_ beautiful _in all her dis-hon-our," We stop spinning, but my head whirls still. My eyes close, considering the Joker's words. Suddenly, my eyes open again when something clicks.

_It's because they are meant for one another. One cannot be complete without the other. _

I get it now.

In his head (_however fucked up it may be)_, Gotham _needs_ something to be afraid of, and the Joker needs something to _push_. Oh, and the Batman, he's important too. The Batman needs something to _save _the city from. They are all part of the equation that Gotham lives by, that she has always lived by. Without these three factors, Gotham would not be Gotham. Think about it. There would be no Joker without the Batman, and there would be no need for the Batman without the Joker. In a strange, fucked up way, the two of them, are made for one another. And Gotham needs them. They complete her. Would she be better off, oh most definitely, but she wouldn't be who she was without them.

It's all Gotham knows.

Oh god, _I get it now._

And the Joker see's it.

His eyes light up as he sees the epiphany in my own eyes; that sort of cliché light bulb switching on over top my head.

"You understand now, doncha?" he observes, giggling excitedly. I nod, wide-eyed and a little dazed. My brain feels like it's full of static, and yet I'm thinking incredibly lucidly, if not a little numbly. I'd like to blame all the spinning, but I don't that's it. Not fully, anyways.

"See, I _knew_ you'd see it my way," he holds me tighter to him, enveloping me in a flurry of purple; encasing me in his scent of gasoline, gun powder and the faint smell of fabric softener. He nuzzles his face into my hair, getting his paint in it; a mocking demonstration of affection.

"But you'll always be stopped," I whisper against his chest.

"Hehmm?" he mutters against my hair, twisting us around on the spot. My head spins violently, the static in my head amplifying.

"That's part of it. You have to be stopped and caught," I murmur gravely, torpidly, wide-eyed at my revelation.

Because it's all part of the equation.

Gotham needs a rest, needs to be safe for a little while. She needs to pick herself up, begin to lift up her chin again. And then, that's when the Joker, the variable in the equation, will come back. The Batman not far behind him. And it will start all over again.

Round and round and round.

After all, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.

Einstein, just in case you didn't know.

Before the Joker can open his fat red mouth to argue, the sound of helicopters fill my ears; the static in my head clears as the beating of the turbines fills my ears. He pulls away from me, doesn't get far because my arms are still trapped around his neck. We spin and both of us stare at the building opposite us.

And panic begins setting in all over again.

Because on the roof of the other building is a small gathering of cops and S.W.A.T. And I have a feeling the gathering is only going to get bigger.

"Hmm, and with only an hour to, ah, _spare_," the Joker comments gruffly, and I look to see he's staring at his pocket watch. I crane my neck to look at the clock on the wall.

11:04.

God, there's so little time.

And, _god, _I'm really fucked.

_I hafta get out of here_

"You hafta lemme go," I say inaudibly at first, and when the Joker glances back down at me I repeat it, louder now, "You have to let me go!" I struggle in his grip, and he furrows his acridly painted brow, creating deep lines in his forehead. He licks his lips, giving me a curious stare, while tightening his clutch on me. I continue struggling frantically anyway.

"Uh, I think-_kuh_ we already went _through this_," He says in a way that I _know_ means he won't be letting me go-

And I snap, doing the stupidest thing possible.Ever.

I, the Vianca Maroni imposter, alias: Rumour, knee the Joker, the city's most dangerous, soon to be most notorious criminal in all of Gotham, in the balls.

As_. Hard_. As. I. _Can_.

The air knocks right out of him, and he makes a low keening noise that sounds like a mixture of a pained moan and a surprised grunt. He keels over, and clearly I really hadn't thought this through, because I go right down with him, seeing as my arms are still wrapped (_trapped)_ around him. He goes down on one knee, clutching his groin, his head bowed. I'm forced to kneel as well, my face inches from his, my arms straining painfully. Ice fills my veins as the Joker raises his eyes to mine slowly; there's no smile on his face, only an animalistic snarl contorting his features. There's no laughter, only heavy, enraged breathing that washes over my face. I whimper at the look in his eyes; they are bugged and enlarged, filled with unholy fire and a murderous rage that says _you-are-so-dead._

I scream when a growl rips from his throat, and he lunges, pinning me with brutal force against the window that faces the city. The back of my skull smacks against the glass, the sound echoing; I yelp in pain, the jarring force of the impact makes stars explode in my eyes. I feel a trickle of blood run down my scalp and down my neck. My vision blurs and disappears all together for one terrifying moment, and when it returns, I wish it hadn't. The Joker's face is mere centimetres from my own, his lip curled and his breathing still ragged. My arms remain around his neck, limp and useless. I'm no longer kneeling; I'm right on my ass, my knees up and spread apart, the Joker kneeling between them on both his knees. My legs, too, are rendered useless. Dazed and in pain, all I can manage is a choked whimper when two gloved hands lash out and grip my throat.

"_Oh, Rumour_," he hisses in my face, squeezing my neck hard. I choke as his thumbs dig into my windpipe.

Cleithrophobia be damned, I have a new fear; the fear of being strangled. I'll hafta look that one up.

"You _really _know how to kill-_luh_ a _mood, _huh?" the Joker's voice is terrifyingly furious, angrier than I've ever heard it before. I gurgle and kick my legs as he tightens his grip on my throat. I feel my eyes bug out, and hot tears leak out. I yank my arms, hoping to get them free, but all that does is bring his face closer to mine.

"I thought-_tuh_ we had an _un-der-standing_, hmm? I thought we were, ah... Havin' a _moment," _he smiles mirthlessly, but it comes out more as a sneer.

"Stop!" I choke out, desperate for air. His sneer stretches hideously, his yellow teeth bared right in my face.

"Oh ho, _you started it_," the Joker growls, and with the hand on my neck he shakes me roughly, hitting my head against the window again. Black dots, ones I'm familiar with now, begin filling my vision, and I feel several veins bursting in my eyes.

"Please," I gasp out, fighting unconsciousness, "Pl-please, listen, listen, please," I beg, my voice strangled and just above a whisper. I finally manage to get my arms over his head, and I push weakly at his chest. I try to beg again, but the Joker's thumbs crush my windpipe, completely cutting off my airway. No noises come out of my mouth; it hangs open, mouthing my pleading.

_Please, please, don't kill me. Not yet. Not after all this. I'm so close. So close to being done. I can't die yet. Not after all I went through. Not without seeing Vee again. Oh god, please, plea-_

I hear him snort, and just before the world falls away, the Joker relinquishes the hold my throat. My whole body jerks, and my eyes pop wide open, my tears spilling out. I cough and hack, my throat convulsing violently. I struggle to breathe for a moment, then I take a huge gulping breathe. I tip my battered skull back against the glass and close my bloodshot eyes, gasping and breathing heavily. I've never been so thankful for oxygen before.

"_Well_," I open one eye at the sound of the Joker's voice, not a close as before, but still simmering with rage, "I'm _listening,"_

_Well, gimme a minute, still recovering here_

I take a few more greedy, gluttonous breathes, and hesitantly look at my captor. I wince when I see his mouth is still twisted in a dangerous sneer. And, he has his switchblade out, twirling it around his fingers. I shudder, following its movements carefully.

"Um," I start, my voice creaking, as I try to collect my thoughts. I don't think the oxygen has returned to my brain yet.

"Uhm, admittedly that wasn't a smart move," the Joker grunts in agreement, but doesn't say anything, "But, I, um, sorta... Panicked, I guess," I relay meekly. He raises a condescending eyebrow.

"Panicked?" he repeats, his tongue slithering out to trace his scars. I squirm under his stare and force myself to go on.

"Um, yeah. Panicked. B-because of the police and SWAT," I stutter my explanation, my voice raw and cracked. My throat is still on fire, not to mention I probably have a concussion.

"Uh-huh," he huffs, giving me a slightly mystified, but disgusted look. He looks like he wants to strangle me again. Instead, he rests the dull side of the knife on my cheek, the lights of the city glinting off the blade.

"Please, please, understand!" I say hurriedly, desperately, "I can't get caught. You hafta understand! If I get caught, I'm fucked over,"

"Caught-_tuh_, hm?" The knife slides down my cheek, and stops right under the right side of my jaw. I lift my chin a little, but that only results in the knife jabbing me harder.

I nod carefully, not wanting to get cut, and babble on, "If the SWAT and police get a hold of me, they'll start asking questions and I can't answer any of them without blowing my cover,"

The Joker cocks his head to the side, "What are ya, an, ah, an _undercover cop-puh_? 'Cos, lemme tell ya, I'm not the kinda _guy_ you wanna be telling that to," his smiles maliciously. The tip of the switchblade breaks my skin, and a small trickle of blood dribbles down my throat. My eyes widen at his accusation.

"What? An under- No! No, no, nothing like that! That's far too legal-" my breathe hitches, ending my sentence abruptly.

_Oh Jeezus_

I think I just revealed far too much.

"Too _legal_, huh?" his smile becomes a lazy grin, and I feel his anger evaporate into haughty triumph. Chuckling to himself, the Joker pockets his knife while I blink at him, feeling baffled. This guy is so hard to keep up; his moods are even more mercurial than mine. I gulp and don't answer, looking around him at the opposite building. More cops and SWAT have gathered there.

"So, ah, you needa get outta here, _hmmm_?" the Joker inquires, placing his hands on the glass at either side of my head. There's a gleam in his eyes, and I can practically see the wheels in his head turning; he's up to something, I know it. But, despite this, I nod slowly anyways.

"Yanno, I've noticed a lil somethin' about our _relationship_, Green Eyes," The way he says 'relationship' makes me squirm, "We have a, ah, a _barter system_ between us, yeah? I do something for _you_, and, uh, and you hafta pay _me_ back-_kuh_, hm? And vice-versa. Isn't that how it is, _Rumy_?" his smugness is almost unbearable. As well as his coyness. Why can't he ever just get to the fucking _point?_

"Yes," I whisper, struggling to keep my watery eyes on his. The Joker's dark eyes are now alight with mischief, and my trepidation grows.

"Let's make, uh, make a _deal_, m'kay?" he suggests, sounding truly elated. I search his red, black and white face, and know that I'm not going to like this deal. But, what other choice do I have? I open my mouth to agree, but the Joker claps a rough hand over my mouth. I squeak in surprise; I look at him, confused and afraid.

"_No, no, no_," he admonishes, putting his face right in mine, "You don't_-tuh_ agree to a _deal _without knowing what's at _stake_ first. That's just, uh, just... _Stupid_, and you're not a stupid girl, hm? No, no you aren't-_tah_. So, so listen, huh?" he tightens his grip on my face, and shakes my face brutally. I cringe and bite my tongue to keep from crying out. He yanks my face to his, his nose touching the side of mine.

"_Are you going to listen?"_ he croons mockingly, brushing my skin with his nose. I nod instantly, hoping he'll back off and let me go. I sigh quietly when he leans away and releases my face. I can feel the imprint of his fingers on my face, and I'm not looking forward to all the bruises I'm gonna get by tomorrow.

"Okie dokie," the Joker smile is huge, and maybe a little wild, "So, here's. The. _Deal,_" he articulates slowly a low voice, "I'll let you, ahm, _scurry _away, so that way the big, bad coppers won't getcha,"

_The condescension really isn't needed_

"But!" he lifts a finger dramatically, "First, you hafta do a 'lil something, ah..." he deliberately lets his dark eyes drop and rove over my body. My heavy breathing stops abruptly, and I go simultaneously hot and cold. My body goes rigid and I instinctively lean away from him, pushing myself right up against the glass. His oily eyes remind me of the position I'm currently in; sitting with my back to the glass, knees apart, and a madman kneeling in between them. Really, really not a good place to be, not at all. His grin becomes downright lascivious, and suddenly all my layers of clothing seem useless as his eyes drink me in. Finally, after taking his merry time, the Joker lifts his leering gaze back to mine.

"_For me_," he finishes, licking at his lips slowly. My lips part and I struggle to keep my composure.

_He can't want... _That, _can he?... _

_Not here at least... Not with all those SWAT-_

_Although he is a psychopath, so who's to say he isn't a voyeuristic psychopath?_

The Joker watches my internal struggle levelly, but his eyes laugh at me, and his lips keep twitching, like he's trying to contain his laughter. Then, when he can't take it anymore, he bursts out laughing, catching me by surprise. He cackles madly, and all I can do is stare, feeling both bewildered and irritated at the same time.

"Rum- heh, _Rumour_," he gasps between chortles, "G-get your mind-_dah_ _outta the gutter_," then he whoops with laughter again. My mouth falls open.

He... He was just _joking_?

My face goes red, and I scowl in an attempt to hide my blush. After awhile the Joker calms down, dramatically wiping tears from his black smudged eyes.

"That was good, Rumy," his laugher turns into an arrogant little smirk, "You shoulda seen you're _face!_ No, Green Eyes, now is not the time for, uh, _that_. Too little _time-muh_, and not the right _place," _the Joker invades my personal space again, and lets his nose run down my throat; the muscles in my neck jerk violently. He snickers against my neck, and his black eyes swerve up to meet mine.

"_But I'll take a rain cheque_," he smiles, his voice huskier, his eyes flashing abruptly with something I'd rather not look into. I swallow with difficulty, my face becoming impossibly hot. My blush deepens and travels down my throat. It's an understatement to say I am _incredibly_ uncomfortable.

"Your, um," I clear my throat- which is difficult seeing as the Joker's face is still against it-, "Your deal?"

"Ah, yes," he says briskly, pulling away from me, becoming all business. But, his eyes still shine with laughter, "The _deal_. Alright, here it is: l let you go, with the help of one of my men so you don't caught-_tuh_," Sounds good so far, "_If..._"

_Here we go_

"You tell me what _ex-act-ly_ you're _doing _here in my city,"

My stomach curls in on itself, and the earlier hopelessness returns unceremoniously. I close my eyes at the bleakness of it all, and feel the Joker take my chin in his hand. I keep my eyes shut.

"_Tell me,"_ he whispers conspiratorially, "Tell me about what's in that little, uh, Folder of yours, Green Eyes, and. I'll. Let. You. _Go_,"

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying desperately to think. Damn this fucking concussion, I can't think! If I tell him, who knows what he'll do, who he'll tell. Like the Romany, for example. I shiver violently at the thought. But, if I don't tell the Joker, he won't let me go. And the police will figure out what I'm up to and both Vianca and I will be in danger. Not to mention, royally screwed.

_What would Vee do in a situation like this?_

Well, Vee would never be in a situation like this. She's far too crafty to get involved in something like this. She would've gotten away long ago. Hell, she probably would've made all the Joker's men fall in love with her, and have them escort her out themselves. So, I can't think like her, I have to think like me.

And being me, I make dumb decisions (see: kicking the most dangerous criminal ever in the crotch). I open my mouth and say with confidence I don't feel: "Deal,"

The Joker claps his hands delightedly, and giggles with childish glee.

"But," his face falls comically, "There are conditions,"

"Conditions, conditions, conditions. I _hate_ conditions," the Joker grumbles under his breath, grimacing at me and sucking on a cheek.

"It all has to be need-to-know. This means, no names, no locations, no dates and no information that isn't relevant to why I'm here, or will trace back to anyone else. Deal?" I stick out my bound hands for him to shake, and he stares at them, considering.

"Fine," he sighs theatrically, "But you have to start at the begin-_ning_, m'kay? I wanna know _exactly _how you and Vianca met; you're, ah, relationship with her, what those papers are in that folder, and why you are doing all this. _Deal_?" He grasps my hands, and raises his brow. I consider his words, and then shake his hand firmly.

"_Deal,"_

**Y'see, I told ya. Mean old cliffie. **

**Okie dokie, things to discuss. So, I know the dancing-with-the-Joker thing has been done before, and though I crave originality, I just couldn't resist. It just went so well with the morbidly whimsical mood the Joker was in. And, at least I didn't use to over-used 'Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moon-light?' line. I mean, no offense if you have used it or like it, it just didn't fit in here for me.**

**Oh, and I stole two things for the Joker's rants. One is a slightly modified quote from the Stephen King short-story based movie 'The Mist', and the other is a quote from the comic books that the Joker says, I just don't know which comic. If you spot them, gimme a shout.**

**So, anyways, I hope this wasn't too bad. I still feel iffy about it and might change it later on. Keep in mind the next chapter will take awhile too because it will be very difficult as well. Lots will be revealed next time, kiddies. Ah, but, if you click that lovely little blue button down there, and give me some encouragement, I might get it out quicker. The choice is yours.**

**Thank you for reading.**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	15. Chapter 15

**I'm not going to babble like I usually do. All I'm going to say is sorry for my absence, and that I appreciate everyone's reviews. I hope you enjoy this. As well, the entire first bit, the italicized part, is Rumour talking to the Joker. Just wanted to make that clear.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Not yet, anyways**

**Chpt. 15** Pinnacle

'_**Every past is worth condemning,'- Friedrich Nietzche**_

_To make things more clear, you need to know three things about me._

_One, I have an Eidetic Memory. If I study something for long enough, like a picture or a list, I can memorize, in full detail, for a very long time. _

_Two-something you are already aware of, but I feel I should remind you- is that I look a great deal like Vianca Maroni, sister to the head of the Falcone crime family. _

_And three, the relationship I have with Vianca is one that I will never fully be able to describe, and that very few people will understand. Even you, who always has an answer for everything._

_I met Vee my first year at University, and remember , need to know. Which means I won't be telling you what University I attended, or where. During my first few weeks, people would call me 'Vianca' instead of my actual name. I was, um, pretty shy back then so I didn't usually correct them. One day, at party that I had been guilted into going to by my roommate, I was talking to someone when they got this weird look on their face. When I looked behind me, it was like- Well, it's hard to describe. Vianca was behind me, smiling, and seeing her for the first time was disorienting. It wasn't quite like looking in a mirror, because we aren't exactly identical. A more accurate description would be that it was like meeting your long lost sister for the first time, which was actually one of my theories when I first saw her. That and cloning. _

_I had been a little drunk._

_Anyways, I remember that she smiled wider at me, and said "So, you're that little rumour I've been hearing about." Apparently, it had been going around that a new year looked exactly like Vianca Maroni, a third year. She's two years older than me, by the way. _

_Vianca said that she had been wanting to find me and talk to me since she the first time she had heard the rumour about me. I mostly gaped at her. She asked if I wanted to go to a coffee place she liked, so we could talk privately. I didn't know what to say, but I went. Even slightly intoxicated, this woman that looked so much like me, intrigued me. We went to a cute little cafe, and stayed there well past dawn. The first thing we discussed was whether or not we're related. We aren't, just so you know. We quickly figured that out by discussing our family tree. Vianca is like a pureblood Italian, if you don't count her mother, which she hardly ever did. And I'm- I dunno if- It might not be- Oh fuck it, what the hell could you find out about me based on my background? Well, Vianca is Italian and most of my family is Irish. So, we figured there's no way we can be related. Well, at least we hoped._

_After that, we just, I dunno... Talked. About lots of different things. About our classes, movies, boys, parties, our families. Although, I didn't find out she was a mob brat until much, much later. After we left, and didn't make any other plans, I never expected to see her again. So when she knocked on my dorm room door a week later, I was very surprised. She wanted me to come to a party with her, and even said I could borrow one of her dresses. We are the exact same size. I'm only an inch taller than her. See, we do have differences, like the eyes. She has a mole, I have darker eyelashes and eyebrows than her, and her hair is thinner than min-_

_Right, right. Off topic. Sorry._

_Okay, um- So, Vianca kept inviting me to parties. She told me she would hardly go to them before. She didn't have many friends, and she found parties boring. But with me, she said, she would have a much better time. And I was just so- I was so flattered. This amazing, fabulous woman wanted me, plain old me. Wanted to party with me, be seen with me. I was so entranced by her. She was like, um, like- Well, Vianca is like the ideal version of myself; well that's how I saw it then. She was the perfected version of myself. Prettier, more talented, and much more confident. At first, I wanted to be like her, but then I settled for being around her, which was better. She had this way about her that made you feel so special, so glamorous. _

_Eventually, I figured out that at first Vianca only wanted me at the parties with her because she liked the attention she- and inadvertently, I- got. I mean, guys go wild for twins, so it was better that they got to see two girls that looked ridiculously alike, but aren't related. In their minds, it made it more likely they would get a threesome with us. Not that we didn't lead them on. Vianca thought it would be, um, funny if we, well... Made out at these parties. I didn't ever argue; I was too afraid to lose her friendship. So, we would kiss and everyone would go crazy. And-_

_What? Did we ever- _

_Oh, god no! Ugh, no! We never, ever did anything past kiss. Vianca may be vain, but I don't think she would go as far have sex with someone who is practically her twin. And, I wouldn't either... I mean, I don't think I would-_

_Anyways! The only times Vianca and I would ever really see each other was at the parties. Because of these parties, most of the girls in my year didn't like me. They thought I was a slut and an attention whore, which isn't really the wrong assessment. I didn't really care what they said about me. In my deluded little mind all I needed was Vianca. But thinking about it, back then I don't think she really needed me. Sure I was a cute little accessory to cart around, earning her looks and attention but besides that, I was nothing to her. I didn't figure this out until much later. And even when I did, I forgave her. I still do._

_One time, Vianca hit a really low point. To this day I'm not sure what caused it, but I'm thinking family issues. We went out, and she partied harder than I'd ever seen. I lost her for a long time at a bar. I found her crammed between about three men, all groping her. She had what looked like puke on her dress and was hardly coherent. I pulled her away from the boys, who protested vigorously, by the way, and brought her to her apartment. I had never actually been inside before, but she gave me the address once, and I found it on a map, and memorized it. It was stuck in my head._

_Actually, I think it still is._

_I brought her home, got her cleaned up and put her to bed. She fell asleep basically right away, but I didn't want to leave her yet. I fell asleep in a chair in her room. I woke up early in the morning to her saying my name, asking why I was here. I explained to her what happened with those guys, and that I had taken her home. I'll never forget her face. She looked at me, so confused. Like she didn't quite understand. Like she had never had someone do something completely selfless for her. She asked me why I did that, and I said that I couldn't leave her. I might have told her I love her. I'm not sure. She stared at me for the longest time, like it was the first time she had ever seen me, then pulled back the covers and told me to get in the bed with her. _

_Don't get excited. As I've said, we never did anything further than kiss. All she wanted me to do was hold her. And I did. We slept until past three the next afternoon. We never went to another party together. At first, we didn't see each other for a long time after that night. I thought she didn't want me anymore, that she didn't want to be with me anymore. But she came a week later, and told me that she was taking me out to dinner. From there, things escalated._

_People forgot who we were, and it suited us fine. We saw each other every opportunity we could. She didn't ever like going out too often. She told me she didn't want to share me with the rest of the world. She didn't tell anyone about me, not her family or her other friends. She said I was only her's. I knew she still went out clubbing, but she never took me anymore. She still demanded I be at her place when she got home so I could hold her while she slept. After a year, our relationship grew into one of those kinds that take years and years to develop. We were everything to each other. Or at least that's how I saw it. She was a mother, a sister, a boyfriend (because of the snuggling, that's it), a best friend, a soul mate. I had and have never loved anyone like I loved and love Vianca. It isn't a simple or explainable love; it's a complicated, maybe even a dark kind of love. But it suits us just fine._

_After my first year ended and her fourth started, she demanded I move in with her. Her apartment was huge so there was more than enough space. I told her I wouldn't do it unless I paid half the rent. It took a bit but she finally caved. I suspect, though, that I was in reality paying a lot less than half. Despite her many, many flaws, Vianca is excellent at taking pity against the poor. Then about half way through my second year, Vianca told me that she was in love. _

_Now, Vee had taken home boys before, and dated a little, but none ever lasted long. She would pick them apart, use them in every way possible (believe me, she would tell me relay quite vividly how she used these boys) and then send them off without even a reason as to why she didn't want to see them anymore. I felt bad for them, but I always figured that just left her with more time for me. _

_This guy, though. He was different. Vianca was totally crazy about him. I had never seen her act like she was before. Like some fucking school girl. Squealing whenever he called, droning on and on about him. And, he wasn't even her type. Vianca's normal type was the muscular, stupid and manipulative types. The kind of guy that thinks that she is a goddess and basks in her glory. She told me they were easy to control, and easy to feel nothing for. Vianca liked being in control and she didn't like becoming attached to people._

_But me._

_But this guy. He wasn't her normal type. At all. I had never met him, Vianca always said it wasn't the time, and I didn't argue. But she loved describing him. She described him as very tall and lithe, with dark, swarthy skin, and inky eyes and hair. She said he was beautiful, in a totally masculine way. That's exactly how she put it. But what threw me, what really threw me, was how dominant he was. The way she described him was that he was bossy and pushy, and liked being in control. She told me he tamed her. And before I had even met him, I hated him._

_I finished my second year, and Vianca finished her fourth, but she decided to repeat her last year because she wasn't going to leave me or her beau. And because she failed most of her classes. Over the summer before school started, I began to notice a change in Vianca. It wasn't very gradual. She started talking about her boyfriend less, and even just started talking less in general. She would wear more plain clothes, which would show less skin than usual. Her skin lost its lustre, and her eyes lost their vibrancy. I begged her to tell me what was wrong. She wouldn't. She began losing weight, and she was out with her boyfriend more and more. She never let me hold her while she slept anymore. That summer nearly destroyed me._

_When her lustre came back, it was early during my third year. All of the sudden she was back to herself. Her eyes lost that lost, glazed look. In replacement was an almost insane glint to them. She started insisting on going to boxing and self defence classes, and going for more runs. I grew more and more worried, especially when she dragged me to a shooting range. When I saw her hit the target the first time she shot the gun, I realized how very little I knew about Vianca Maroni. She kept telling me how lucky it is that I have an Eidetic Memory, that it's good that it helps me learn things quickly. And it's true. I became pretty good at the boxing and the self defence classes. I was and am even pretty good at shooting a gun, although when I shoot, the bullet always seems to veer to the left. I tried to convince myself that entire time that it was just a faze. That she had broken up with her boyfriend – I never heard anything about him anymore – and that she would be my Vianca again._

_When she would ask in the night right before I fell asleep, if I loved her, if when I said I would do anything for her that if it was true, I told myself it was fine. That she just is dealing with some low self esteem. It would pass, it would pass. And I would tell her I love her more than anyone, that I would die for her, deny her absolutely nothing. And it's true. I knew and know she has oh so many faults. But I love her, and I can't say no to her. I can't let her down._

_So when she told me that she was selling the apartment and that I was to go back home to my family for over winter break while she figured some things out, I went. I did what I was told. I figured what she meant by 'figuring things out' was that she was finding us somewhere else to live. That she just wanted a change of scenery. _

_Then, I got a letter in the mail._

_It came on the third day of winter break. It was sitting on the table. I never really got mail so I remember being confused. The package was large, and it didn't have a return address. I opened it, and shook out its contents. _

_The first thing that came out was a necklace._

_You see the one I'm wearing? Yeah, it's Vianca's. And those words there, they're an Italian proverb; the Maroni family saying, I guess. _La morte mi trovera vivo_- _'Death will find me alive'_. In every memory I have of her, it's there. She never took it off. Not even to shower. When I would hold her at night, I'd admire it. I always liked it._

_But when I saw it come out of the envelope, I immediately knew something was very wrong. I tore open the envelope. And I found the Folder. That one, over there. Inside of it were numerous sketches, of people I had never seen before. There were also maps and instructions. A list, cue cards, sticky notes. I got really freaked out when I saw the gun in there, too. But the thing that scared me most was that there was a box of contacts. Specially made ones. Made specifically for me, and as close to the colour of Vianca's eyes as I think any professional could get. I wouldn't touch the Folder for over two days, but I eventually went back and read through it. I'm not going to tell you word for word what the instructions are, or what all the papers in there are. That would take far too long. I'll give you the short version._

_Vee is in trouble. I'm not telling you why or what she did- Need to know. You can guess all you want. You might even be right, but I won't tell you if you are or not. All that you need to know is that Vianca Camilla Maroni needs to disappear. She already did, actually. In the Folder she told me not to bother to try to find her, or get the police involved. They would just make things more complicated. She told me to trust her, and I do. I try to. She wrote that she needs my help. And she wrote down exactly what I need to do. But, she told me that if I helped her, I would become involved in a world I know nothing about. In the Folder she told me all about her family. About her mother meeting her father, both of them dying, as I'm sure you know, and Salvatore taking Falcone's place in the family business. I couldn't believe it. I still don't. I know close to nothing about the girl who is practically my soul mate._

_She also told me that if I was to help her, I would need to cut off all ties to my previous life. Apparently, it was either all or nothing. She told me that it was to keep me and my family safer. I suppose that's true, but I also suppose Vianca just wants me all to herself. She told me that often enough for me to believe that it's true. But I don't care. I'm hers and she is mine. And I have and will do anything for her. Including leaving school. Leaving my family. Dropping my entire life... Even ending it._

_Um, yeah. I know it seems a little much to have to, um, fake my death. But Vianca said if this was to work, if I wanted to be with her again, I had to be thorough. I'm not going to go into detail, but the whole death thing involved my car, an icy road in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, a tree, an explosion from a gas leak, and no sign of me for over a month. Some people speculated I died in the crash, or in the explosion and my body was totally incinerated, and that's why there was no body. Others think I got out and wandered away from the crash, getting lost in the woods and dying of hunger or exposure or hypothermia. Or that some animals got to me. Either way, I was gone. Presumed dead. _

_I think it can take up to five years to legally pronounce someone dead after they disappear. That might just be with abductions though, not sure. Anyways, regardless of the law, after a month and a half, my family and friends back home had a funeral. They believed me dead. Police and my family and friends scoured every inch of that forest, and there was absolutely no sign of me. And my family knows I wouldn't just wander off somewhere else and not tell them. They knew me well enough to know that I would never willingly leave them without even a word to them as to where I was going and why._

_I guess they didn't know me as well as they thought. _

_I didn't want to leave them. I know it killed them, me dying. I know they love me. I love them too. It's just... A different love that I feel for Vianca. Being with Vianca is all consuming and potent, so different than anything I've ever felt before. And I didn't want them to get hurt, to be at all connected to the things that Vianca bade me to do. It was just easier, no longer being alive to them. And easier no longer being alive period. It's hard to track a dead person._

_Even harder to track a person that doesn't exist, and that was my most important task. That's where Harvey came in. Vianca knew him well – Not telling you how- and knew he would help her disappear. So, she wrote down all the things I needed to know about him, and how to act like her. Helpful tips, what to say in certain scenarios, that kind of thing. She and the Folder taught me how to be her. I became very good at it. I went to the university, and went through the process of unregistering Vianca as a student. Then when I arrived in Gotham, I did several... Other things, but the most important thing I did was getting Harvey to use his influence to erase all records, all traces of Vee. As of a couple weeks ago, Vianca Maroni doesn't exist. No records of her at our university, no birth records, no nothing. Sure, if you Googled her, maybe one picture or one article would come up, but it would take a lot of searching, and the picture would have no info attached to it, and the website wouldn't either. She is a myth now to those who didn't know her. And untraceable to those who did._

_I came here for other reasons. I won't tell you them all. Only that Harvey, Rachel and Maroni all had very key parts to play. And you messed almost all them up. _

_The rest, all that I've left out, well..._

_This is just strictly need to know. And you don't need to know the rest._

~/~

"So, does that satisfy your curiosity?"

I take a deep breath, my mouth dry from talking (babbling) so much. I'm having a hard time meeting the Joker's stare. His eyes are contemplative, like he's trying to decide whether or not he believes me. I told the truth. True, I left things out, like the money I took out of the bank, and several other things, but he got the gist.

So, there you have it. Does that solve some of the mystery? I'm dead in the eyes of the law, my family and everyone who has ever known me. Except, for the man in front of me, and the girl who started it all.

"Does it?" I ask quietly, hesitantly looking the Joker in the eye. He licks his lips, and reaches out, taking my chin, and with gentleness that is more startling than comforting, brings my face inches from his. His black eyes flit back and forth from my own smoky green ones. The action reminds me of that night in the limo when the Joker noticed the contacts. I shudder a little, remembering his anger, the demonic quality of his voice. I didn't understand then why he was so mad.

But I think I do now. Since then, I've come to understand the man called the Joker a little better. Not by much, but better.

Since then I've learned that he without the make-up, his magnetism is even stronger, and that at one point, he might have even been handsome.

I've learned he's a _very_ aggressive kisser. Let's not linger on that fact too long.

I've learned he doesn't believe in coincidences.

I've learned why he changes his scar story whenever he tells it to a new victim.

I've learned that in his own way, the Joker loves the city of Gotham.

But, another thing I've learned is the Joker hates pretenders. He hates people who act like something they aren't. That's why he's doing this. That's why he's rigged those Ferries to blow, so he can show the people of Gotham their true selves. So they can embrace their true natures.

This makes me wonder. Does the Joker hate me?

I know he hates the contacts because of his reaction to them. He didn't like that I was pretending to be Vianca Maroni. But, that's what I'm in Gotham for. To be Vee. To tie up the loose ends, maybe makes some amends, say good bye. And, if need be, get rid of any threats to Vee's well being. All I've done is pretend. So, does the Joker hate me?

The Joker told me on the bus the reason why he is interested in me (_shudder_) is because I'm a mystery, and that I bring out the impulsiveness in him. And admittedly vice-versa , but I'll never tell him that. But, could that be only half of it? Has he done all this because he secretly despises me? For some of the things we've been through, that makes sense. The miscellaneous strangling and cutting, the mouth-rape in the alley and on the bus, the horrible eye-opening in regard to my non-existent relationship with Rachel and Harvey. Those could all be signs of hate, right? Or, at least dislike.

But, what about helping me get out of the MCU, then taking me home in the cop car? And the dancing earlier, that he's going to let me go, and just the fact he hasn't fucking killed me yet. What about that intense look in his eyes that he sometimes gets? Is it hate or- I don't even know. I don't think I want to.

Just so we're clear, I don't think the Joker is at all romantically interested, despite two accounts of mouth rape, and the innuendo earlier. Personally, I think he's more into mind fucking than the other one, but I'd rather not look into the other too far. The point is, I'm not fucking delusional. However the Joker feels about me, it has nothing to do with anything good or sweet or even remotely healthy. Not even close. And don't you dare think I feel anything beyond fear, anger and slight gratitude toward him. True, there is a freaky enthralling quality to the mad man, but he scares me more than anything, and honestly, the guy is an insane clown. Not my thing.

"For _now_," the Joker's voice yanks me out of my infernal mind ranting. Remembering what we're talking about, I sigh with relief.

_Oh thank god_

My story was good enough. He's going to let me go now. He lets go of my face, and smiles a knowing smile. One that makes me squirm uncomfortably.

"And my, my, what an _intricate _webyou've weaved-_duh_, Green Eyes," he drawls, smacking his lips. For someone reason, his expression is almost proud.

"I didn't weave it," I mutter.

_I'm trapped in it_

"No," he agrees, "You're just a little, ah_,_ _fly," _he makes an elaborate hand gesture, "Caught in it. And little _Mizz _Mah-_roni_ is the _spider_," he suddenly leans forward, and whispers, "I can't help but wonder; how long until she devours_ you_?" His dark eyes bore into mine, and I blink at him, not understanding.

"I've known girls-_zuh_ like her before, Rumy. Ever heard of a, uh..._ Black Widow_? You're _Vee_," he sneers at the nickname, "Fits in that category. She ensnares, uses, abuses, and then de-_vours_. You've seen it firsthand. All those little _boy toys_ she plays with for a bit, then _dumps_," he smiles jaggedly, and I feel my face harden.

"I don't get your point," I almost growl, on the defensive. How dare he judge Vee, after all he's done?

"How much longer will she keep you, huh?" -Why does he suddenly sound so vengeful? - "How much longer until she de-_vou_-ers you too, Green Eyes? You wanna know what I think-_kuh_?"

"No," I say through gritted teeth. The Joker raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting a little.

"Euh, yeah, I'm gonna tell ya anyway," He chuckles, ignoring the way I bare my teeth at him, "I think-_kuh_ after you complete your little, erm, _mission_," his red lips twist sardonically, "_She'll abandon you. _She doesn't care about you,"

_I've been told that a lot today_

"Oh, _sure_, she might think you're a pretty little, ah, _trinket_," he rolls his eyes, the whites of his eyes blaring against the soot-like circles around his eyes, "But that's all. Girls like Vi-an-_ca_ Maronidon't care 'bout _anyone _but themselves-_zuh,_"

I bristle, steam positively roaring out of my ears. Well who the fuck does he think he is, talking about things- about a _relationship_- he couldn't possibly understand? How fucking dare he?

"You're wrong," I disagree fiercely, my teeth tightly clenched. The Joker purses his lips mockingly, and is about to add something when I interrupt him.

"It doesn't matter anyways," I snap, "I upheld my end of the bargain. Time for you to do the same," The Joker's bemused expression falls, and his eyes narrow. I inhale sharply, instantly regretting my words.

"Ah, might I _suggest_," he leans in, like he wants to tell me a secret and growls, "Not getting the mass _murdering_," he spits the words, "Psycho-_pathic _terrorist, uh, _angry _ when he's just about to let. You. _Go_," I hear the click of the switchblade before I feel it on the skin of my neck.

I swallow nervously, my anger ebbing away to fear as the knife caresses my veins. I try again, "Please," speaking in a softer voice, "Let me go,"

The Joker's eyes un-narrow and a grin stretches across his face again. Abruptly, he hops up to his feet, pulling me up with him, giggling when I yelp in surprise. He pulls the knife away from my neck, and he grabs my bound wrists. I stiffen when the knife wedges its way beneath the tape, and cuts upward. The tape comes off awkwardly, with little pieces of it falling to the ground. His face is bowed near mine as he works on getting the tape off. His humid breath washes over my face, and I can hear him humming under his breath. My face heats up at how pathetic this is; my dependency on him for getting out of here is pitiful. He finishes, and I pull my hands from the Joker's, rubbing them absently. I watch him; waiting to see what's going to happen next.

Without a word to me, the Joker pulls out the phone from earlier, and presses a button. He steps away , and that gives me the opportunity to move my back from against the window. I move a little ways to the side so I can see the windows behind the Joker. I see that the Ferries are still in one piece, and that there are a lot more SWAT gathered on the opposite building.

"_Get up here_," I hear the Joker speak brusquely into the phone. The Joker snaps the phone shut, pockets it and then faces me again. He looks at me impassively for a moment, studying me. I swallow again, and look away and at the clock.

11:43.

"Not _long_ now," I return my gaze to him at that comment, seeing that now he has a foul smile on his face. I nod, not saying anything in return. I stand by my opinion. I just can't allow myself to believe that people are as fetid and crooked as he believes they are.

"Yanno," he begins casually strolling toward me, "This might-_tuh_ be the last, ah, time we get to _see_ each other for awhile,"

_I'm counting on it_

He stops in front of me, and stretches out a hand. I flinch, and he chuckles darkly as he prods the bruises beginning to sprout on my neck, flicking his tongue across his lip.

"Those'll , ah, _keep me_ on your mind for awhile," the Joker murmurs huskily, his tunnel eyes roving over them possessively. I wince when he presses down on a bruise forming on my windpipe. I open my mouth to say something along the lines of 'You'll be in mind my mind anyways' – which I would've immensely regretted- when the dogs start going crazy. Taking his hands off me, the Joker swivels around, his long over coat whirling around him. I peek around him and gasp.

A dark figure, more a blur than anything, comes gliding from the opposite building, landing on one of the lower floors_._

_The Batman_

"_He's here_," the Joker breathes, and when I look I see he has an almost dreamy expression on his face. Sensing me watching him, he shoots me a dark sideways glance, and licks his lips.

"Wanna _watch_?" he invites, quirking up an eyebrow. I think what he means is he wants me to watch him and the Batman duke it out over the fate of the city. A part me of me, small and frightening, desperately wants to. Desperately needs to see how it will pan out. But I know if the Batman shows up and I'm still here, I probably won't be getting out of here. So, I push the smaller, darker part of me back, and I rack my mind for a convincing answer for him.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I gulp when his eyebrow lowers again, and his stance becomes more menacing, "B-but only because I'd be a..."- What's the word here? - "_Distraction,_"

I let those words sink in, and I watch as the Joker's stance loosens a smidgen, although still hunched and predatory. His eyes take on a burning intensity that I regret to be used to. He sidles closer, and leans down so his face is right in front of mine. I fight not to back away.

"A dis-_tract_-ion?" he parrots, canting his head to one side. He's close enough to be able to smell the gasoline and gun powder on him, and it makes my head whirl.

_Or is it just the concussion?_

"_Yes_," the Joker's voice drips hotly into my ear, "You are a _distraction_, Green Eyes, aren'cha? Very _dis_-tracting," his expression turns into bafflement, like he can't quite figure me out.

_Feelings mutual_

"And, ah, do you know what you _do_ to things that... _distract?_ Hm?" he takes a piece of my tangled, sweaty hair, and idly rubs it between two fingers.

"No," I respond stiffly, shaking my head, successfully pulling my hair out of his fingers. His eyes watch covetously as that piece of hair falls back into place, before returning his oily stare to mine.

"You," the Joker relays slowly, "_Hide it away_, to, ah, _play_ with when you have the time-_muh_,"

I blink owlishly, and my breathing comes to an abrupt stop. He can't be saying-

He doesn't mean-

Oh, god, he can't. I take a step back, and prepare to run away when suddenly, a banging noise echoes across the room. From the back of the room, out walks that one goon, Maul. He strides forward, watching us stoically.

"Boss," he greets the Joker, hardly sparing me a glance. Beneath us, the sound of gun shots and yelling makes the anxiety I feel rise.

_Oh god, oh god, I gotta get out now_

"Maul," the Joker says in a clipped tone, "I needja to do a lil something for me, m'kay? See her?" he gestures toward me, and I wave awkwardly at Maul, "She, ah, she needs a little _air. _I needja to get 'er outta here,"

"Yeah, Boss?" he looks at me, his face guarded. Best freaking poker face I've ever seen.

"Yeah, _Maul_," the Joker goes on, coming closer to Maul, "You take that elevator," he points to the old, rickety elevator shaft that I really don't want to go in, "And you take out-_tuh_ _anyone_ that gets in your way? _You get me_? Hmm?" his tongue runs over his teeth, and my skin crawls. Honestly, does he try to be this menacing, or does it come naturally?

"Go' it, Boss," but Maul is a trooper, hardly batting an eyelash at the clown.

"Oh, and uh, choose a nice spot-_tah_ by the Harbour, so you can, ah-heh... _Enjoy the show_. And _don't_ let her go," he smiles widely, his eyes veering to look at me out of the corner of his eye, "Un-_til _the show is _over," _

My mouth gapes open in horror. He's going to make me watch the Ferries blow up. I shut my mouth, then glare frostily at him. He grins impishly in response, undeterred by my anger.

"And-_duh_ let her go once midnight passes. You got all that?"

"Aye, Boss," Maul says passively, sweeping his gaze over me again. I look away, and back at the clock.

11:50.

Shit, we really have to hurry or-

I squeak in surprise and pain when the Joker suddenly lashes out and seizes my forearms, wrenching me forward and twisting them until I have to stand on my toes. His bumps his forehead against mine, his garish makeup rubbing into my skin. The Joker's eyes meet mine, almost earnestly, flaring and drilling into mine. I blush with embarrassment, both at the zeal of the action, and at the fact that Maul is seeing it.

"_I will find you again_," he growls low, so only I can hear, "You under-_stand_? _I will find you," _ He shakes me by my wrists, jarring my already battered head. I look at him, confused and scared and simply not understanding.

But another part of me wants to smirk, and say that _he won't be seeing me ever again_, because I'm leaving this fucking city in a matter of days. But I'm too tongue tied and baffled by his fanatical vow. I mean, what do you even say to something like that? How am I supposed to take it? The tone was threatening, but the words were kind of reverent. Gah, why does this man have to be so confusing and frightening?

So, I just bite my lip and nod weakly. The Joker searches my face, squinting one eye. I don't know what he's looking for, but he seems to find it, because he lets go of me, and smiles in a satisfied manner. He leans down and picks up the Folder, handing it back to me. Then he chucks my chin, smiling with a facsimile of affection, baring his teeth in a way that makes me think of a wolf. He winks, then turns to Maul and becomes all business again, leaving me wide-eyed and shaking.

_What in the hell just happened?_

"Maul," is all the Joker says, then walks away, toward the windows facing the Harbour. He whistles, and the dogs come to him, loyally, guarding him. He clasps his hands behind his back, and is oddly still. I jump when Maul takes a hold of my wrist, and begins leading me away. He pulls me into the elevator, and I crane my neck to look at the Joker before we make our ascent down. The Joker tilts his head in my direction, the light from the helicopter illuminating his painted face.

There's so many things I want to say to him before I leave.

I want to tell him he's wrong. He isn't the only person I have. That, outside of this damned city, there are people who love (_or loved)_ me, and people that I love as well. I want him to know how very mistaken he is about me. I don't need him, or want him, or depend on him. Or even care about him_. I don't_.

I want to tell him that sometimes I feel this pull towards him. It isn't attraction, it isn't affection. Nothing fluffy like that. It's raw and bewildering. I want to tell him he reminds me of a magnet, and I'm the helpless, unwilling, scrap of metal being drawn toward it.

I want to tell him he deserves to be caught, and that I won't miss him or think of him when I get out of this city. That he will _never_ find me again. I want to tell him I _hate_ this city, and the things it makes people do. And that I can't wait to leave it, and will not be sorry if I _never_ see it again.

But, I don't tell him any of this.

Instead as the elevator starts to go down, I lock eyes with him, and give the Joker a small, almost thankful smile. He doesn't return it, simply watches me with an unreadable expression on his face. And the last thing I see before the elevator takes me away, is the garish, ethereal image of the Joker, standing above the city in the dark, the light hitting his smeared face, his eyes burning holes in his face. Focused on me.

And I know this image is permanently burned into my memory.

~/~

I struggle to control my panting as the elevator takes us down. The situation I'm in just set in. The SWAT, if they see us, me and Maul, will not hesitate to shoot. I'm dressed like a goon, and so is Maul, and he has a gun too so they are gonna see and not even think and will shoot us and we'll die and this will all be for nothing and I _hate_ elevators and I don't want to die-

"Breathe," I flinch in surprise at the sound of Maul's soft, Irish brogue. I stare up at him, clutching the Folder tighter to me.

"Breathe," he murmurs again, "Relax an' breathe, _cailín__," _

_Cailín_

I know that word. Gramma would sometimes call me that. And instantly my breathing steadies, and my muscles loosen a little. But as I allow myself to relax a little, I realize just how truly exhausted I am. There are no real walls in the elevator shaft to lean against, only wooden supports, so I sway slightly in spot.

"Steady, _cailín__,_" Maul says, putting a hand lightly on my shoulder, "S'almost over,"

_Thank god_

I try my best not to lean against Maul as we continue down, but my limbs are becoming increasingly heavier, and my vision is a little off. Not blurry or anything, but everything is slightly leaning to the left. Although I'm pretty sure that's the concussion. Maul keeps his hand on my shoulder, whether its to keep me steady, comfort me, or make sure I don't get away, I'm not sure. I don't care. Right now it's my anchor. I'm so ready to just collapse, and sleep for a week. I don't think I've ever had a worse day. A more emotionally exhausting day.

Seeing Harvey. _Really _ seeing Harvey, maybe for the first time ever.

Learning that Rachel is dead. And that it's the Joker fault.

And then all that followed the bus ride from hell. News segments, clown masks, Roland's murder, the Joker having my Folder, unfortunate revelations, the social experiment, dancing, storytelling. It's hard to believe that all this, all this absolute _madness_ has happened in only one day. And the madness isn't even over yet. I can't help but think it never will be.

We make it down the elevator with very little interference. Every once and while shots were fired near us (_or were they at us?)_ but besides that the ride down was relatively smooth. A blessed relief on my battered- well, everything. But mostly my emotional state, my head and my throat. We reach the bottom floor, and Maul gently but briskly guides me out of the elevator shaft. I move sluggishly with him toward what I assume is the back exit of the Prewitt building. We make it about half way there when-

"Hey you! Put your hands-"

Maul turns, his hand suddenly off my shoulder. A loud _BANG_! Then a gurgle. I muffle my scream against my hand, and Maul's hand is on my shoulder again. He's ushering me out, telling me to _move, move_. And I look behind me, gagging as the blood seeps out from under the fallen officer. His eyes are just beginning to glaze as we make it to the exit.

'_**You take out anyone that gets in your way'**_

I tremble, and if Maul feels it, he doesn't say anything.

We make it out of the building, and Maul guides me toward the docks. I wrap my arms around my waist, holding the Folder to me. Despite the jacket I have on, I'm cold and the horrors of today are beginning to relentlessly settle into my bones. My trembling becomes more violent. We stop on one of the docks. We have a perfect view of the Prewitt building, as well as the Ferries.

"Wh-what time is it?" I ask wobbly. I look at Maul, who is studying the Ferries calmly. At the sound of my voice, he glances down at the watch on his wrist.

"Two minutes to midnight," Maul answers quietly, his voice void of emotion. Dread and sadness fills my veins.

"What do you think is going to happen?" I can't stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. Maul looks down at me (_and why is everyone so tall?)_, but looks away again. He doesn't answer me, but he keeps his hand on my shoulder.

"He's going to get caught, no matter the outcome," I say distantly, looking up at the Prewitt building, at the penthouse floor. I wonder if the Joker can see us down here. Goosebumps erupt all over my skin at the thought. Maul doesn't make any remarks about my statement, which I anticipated anyways.

I scan the building's top floor, watching for any movement, when one of the windows seems to explode. The helicopter hovers close, the light illuminating the scene above me; The Batman flies through the window, landing with the shards of glass onto the landing. The Joker then kicks out a wooden brace, sending a steel frame hurdling toward the Batman. The Batman stops it from crushing his neck, but he's trapped. The Joker steps out, and pins him down. The Batman seems to be struggling weakly, and the Joker makes gesture in the air; a maestro.

"_What time is it_?" I ask Maul again, this time wildly.

"Midnight,"

I whirl, determined not to close my eyes, and wait for the blast of heat, the deafening boom of the explosion. A moment, a mere second passes. Then another. And another. But the Ferries remain in front of me, docilely floating on the water. I wait another second, and then a small smile twitches at my mouth. It doesn't reach my eyes.

"I was right," I whisper to myself.

I finally _won_. I finally won against the Joker. For once, he was _wrong_. People, even the ones in this forsaken city, can rise above an evil situation, and hang onto to their morals. Hang onto the belief that a small amount of people can change the world for the better. That people can make the right decision, even it means losing their own lives.

_I won_

But then I'm jerking around to look at the building, the smile fading when I remember something; the Joker has his own detona-

Someone is falling off the building.

Someone is falling off the _fucking _building.

And, is that purple-

I lurch forward, a scream climbing in my throat, but Maul stops me with a hand tightening on my shoulder. The purple mass hurdles toward the ground_, _and I close my eyes because I can't watch, I can't see this-

"_Cailín,_" Maul's lilting, comforting voice is in my ear. I open my eyes slowly, mentally preparing myself for the smeared, bloody image of-

I giggle. Hysterically, in disbelief.

The Joker is hanging upside down, being hauled up by a cable or grapple of some sort that is wrapped around his ankle. Looking up, I see the Batman is pulling him back up. The Joker is upside down; his lapels are turned out, and hanging behind him, his greasy green hair is defying gravity. And, maybe that's the wind, but I think I can hear laughing. And, it's funny. It's absolutely ridiculous! Why in the world would anyone save the Joker from falling to his death, let alone the Batman? After all the shit he's done to him? Done to the city and its inhabitants. Anyone, including myself, would have let that mad man fall.

But not the Batman. Maybe it's because he's better than the rest of us. Or maybe because he is worse. Maybe he's a monster, and maybe he's a hero.

But maybe, he's just a man.

The Batman heaves the clown back up to the shattered window, but doesn't pull him in. He lets him dangle upside down, his arms cart wheeling and his body swaying. He's suspended there for awhile, and yes, I can definitely hear his laughter. But, it's even more off kilter than usual. Does he realize he has lost? The two of them, the vigilante and the terrorist, seem to speak for a moment, the Joker's arms cart wheeling more furiously. Then, after a few moments, a helicopter hovers closer to the building, and the Batman disappears. Other figures, I can only assume the SWAT, begin pulling the Joker back into the building. I watch, and suddenly, the Joker is gone. All that's left is his laughter, but even that vanishes eventually.

And suddenly, it's over.

"What's going to happen to him?" I wonder faintly, glancing at Maul. He still has no expression on his face. He doesn't look even a bit surprised by the way these events have unfolded.

"Boss'll likely be takin' tae Arkham Asylum, tae be evaluated by tha doctors. Tae see if he is really insane o' not," Maul answers for once.

"And if they don't think he is? And what if they do?"

"Send 'im tae Blackgate Prison if they think 'e ain't, and keep 'im in the asylum if they think 'e is," Maul shrugs, taking his hand off my shoulder and stuffing it in his jacket's pocket. I can't believe how relaxed he is, it's like he-

"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?" I whisper. Maul looks down at me, and finally emotion comes into his face. I can't decipher it, though, but the way he looks at me, it's like he's seeing me for the first time. And I'm seeing him now too. Maul's cheekbones are high, his facial structure angled and sharp. His mouth is full, and he has stubble on his jaw. His eyes, they are a surprising blue, almost turquoise.

_And his neck._

Four long claw-like gashes, long ago healed but with scars that serve as a reminder, begin at his jaw and slash down the left side of his neck, disappearing past the collar of his jacket. The scars are jagged and feral, and I doubt that a knife or anything of that sort delivered those vicious lacerations. I'm beginning to understand why the clown calls this man _Maul. _ Maul's own eyes, those startling blues, take in my own features. I wonder what he sees. All I see lately when I look in the mirror is a girl who is in way over her head.

"Ye can go now," he says quietly, taking a step away from me. He doesn't answer my question, but the look in his eyes does. This man isn't an ordinary goon. There's more to him than just being a lackey. I wonder if the Joker knows this. I wonder, for a small moment, who Maul really is.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask him, simply out of curiosity. I wonder if he is thankful that the Joker told him to get me out. Now he won't be caught like the rest of the goons. But, what does a goon do after their boss is taken away? What do they have?

"Wait," is all he says. And it makes my blood freeze. The way he said it, that one word, was like a prediction, like a promise. Like he doesn't think he will be waiting long at all. And I'm reminded that this is a dangerous man. I take a step away from him.

"I'm allowed to go now," It's not a question.

"Aye,"

The relief doesn't come. Not yet. I take another step, but before I run, run all the way to my apartment, run into my bed and shut my eyes to this day, to sleep it all away, I say to Maul,

"Thank you,"

~/~

**Again, I don't want to babble too much. Just tell me how it is, and if you guys are still interested in this story. And I apologize for how long it is. Splitting it wouldn't make sense for the next chapter. Everyone is going a little Bane crazy (not that I can blame them), so we'll see if anyone is still interested in a story about our lovable clown. **

**What I'm most interested to know is what you think of Vee's and Rumour's relationship, and if that vague back story was at all satisfying. Please tell me what you think. Oh, and I changed that during the first chapter Rumour takes 10 mill rather than 25. 25 was just a little much.**

_**linnie kinda spinnie**_


	16. Outline

**Okay, so I have indeed abandoned this story. I'm a bad person, I know, but I have no interest in it, and re-reading chapters of this makes me cringe. It was my baby at one point, and it will always have a soft spot in my heart, but I will not be continuing it. So, in order to satisfy whatever fans I have left, I have here an outline of what was going to happen in the last chapter. I lost my original outline of the story, so if there are plot holes still, then I apologize, I did this by memory. **

**Make sure to read note at the bottom.**

Brief Summary of the ending of Rumour:

This is what I remember: I have since lost my outline because of getting a new computer.

The Joker has been arrested, and is being detained in Arkham asylum. Officials claim he will remain there until the doctors can determine for sure if he is legally insane. Rumour is ready to leave Gotham, but is compelled to stay a few extra days in order to attend Salvatore Maroni's funeral. There she meets his son Anthony (Tony Maroni) who clearly has plans to take over the Falcone family business.

Everything is ready now, and now all she has to do is meet a woman for lunch (who is implied to be Vianca's old nanny, and one of the few people she really trusts). She gives a good chunk of the money to the woman, who tries to refuse it, but Rumour insists that is what Vianca wanted. The woman gives Rumour an envelope with plane tickets (the location was never going to be revealed to the dear readers, but wherever Rumour is going, Vianca will be there waiting).

Rumour is packing up her stuff when she is assaulted from behind, and knocked unconscious. She wakes to find her self tied to a metal chair in what looks like a freezer of some sort. There is man a sitting across the room, and he has a gun. Rumour recognizes him as the Romany patriarch/boss of the gypsy/traveler mafia she has been trying to avoid). He sees she is awake, and without a word, cracks her with the gun on the jaw, and her chair tips over. The man then describes in detail what he is going do to her (starvation, torture, give her to his men to play with, the gist). Rumour, not exactly knowing why the Romany is after Vianca, essentially asks if all that is really necessary. The Romany says that it is will not bring back the lives of his son, or his unborn grandchild. Rumour is surprised at this. The Romany goes off in rant, talking about how his son had always had a weakness for women, and that he had hoped his wife being pregnant would have finally made him settle down, but then she (Vianca) came along. Then, he implies that Vianca had a hand in the murder of his son's wife (and therefore his grandchild), which led his son to kill himself. Rumour finally understands why Vianca needed to disappear, and also comes to understand how little she knows about her "soul mate".

Done with his rant, the Romany gets out a knife, and is about to cut off one of her fingers when gunshots and screams are heard. Tony Maroni bursts into the room, and instantly guns down the Romany. He makes a quip about blood/family, and then frees Rumour. He tells her that he had her followed, in order to make sure she was really leaving the city (he doesn't want another rival for the throne, so to speak). Rumour convinces him that she just wants to leave, so he has one of his guys drive her back to her apartment.

The very last bit is Rumour sitting in the airport, staring blankly at a picture of the Joker's mugshot in the newspaper. She recalls their conversation about her relationship with Vee, and she comes to terms with the fact that she is strangely interested in the Joker, and that maybe she has a thing for "superior beings", and apparently, with ruthless beings, based on what the Romany said about Vee.

Rumour is unsure whom to believe, because she is sure if she asked Vee, she would tell her a much different story. So she resolves not to ask Vee about it, not even to mention that she had a run-in with them. Because in the end, she would rather have her friend, and have her as a monster, than not have her in her life at all.

It ends with Rumour boarding her plane, leaving the picture of the Joker's mugshot behind.

End with third person POV of a man in a straightjacket, blond hair messy and obscuring their face. The man is clutching a picture of a woman with blond hair and navy blue eyes. When he lifts his face, the light shows his ruined, half burnt face.

Imply sequel.

**Okay, there you have it. If you liked Rumour, please check out my other Joker stories, especially Convenient Distractions, I am quite happy with that one so far. **

**Also, something I would like to propose.**

**I MAY be persuaded to do a revised, remade and remodeled version of Rumour, that would most likely be darker, more action and less silly stuff (although with humour added in once and awhile). It would not happen immediately, hell it might not happen at all, but I am open to being persuaded.**

**Lemme know how you feel, and please check out my other stories! Also, if you want to PM me about anything that just went down, please, I would love that!**

**I love you guys, and I'm sorry if I disappointed you. **

_**- linnie **_


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